Personal Space
Out on the isthmus, they could be sales reps on a junket.
One shoulders his rifle like a paintball gun. The balaclava slips
as he aims across the scrub till a hand on his arm defers the event.
On the headland, a man in a coat with too many pockets
scans the horizon. So much sea. It could be Dungeness or Clacton.
Men look so much smaller wearing uniform, don’t you find?
Great banks of cloud move in from the east, along the pipeline,
by the coast road, in unmarked trucks from the ferry terminal.
I’m thinking about personal space. I’m thinking about the edge.
Tom Chivers 