Where’s the fraught frontier between
Mercia and East Anglia ? Guards were stationed here
gazing out from within. And within
was somewhere to die for. And without
was someone to kill. I explored it once,
that fraught frontier, now footpath
between nettles. It was sunday
and Cambridge families were out walking there
after a good lunch.
And where’s
the fraught frontier between Wales
and the Marches ? Along the rivers
and escarpments, where the great dyke is,
and where King Edward’s sentries pace
to and fro behind his walls,
those battlements, those helmets.
They attract significant income these days
for the Tourist Board.
And where’s
the fraught frontier between my innocence,
and your guilt, my dread
and your threat, that roar
of hooves across the Steppes
towards my heart’s core ?
Let me
touch your shoulder, stranger.
I mean you no harm. Might you
cup my cheek, enquiringly ?
Rogan Wolf
