4 Poems from an emerging poet.
No water-bottles now – to reduce single-use plastic, offset aviation fuel. My gut’s like a wind-sock. I panic for my passport, ask for a cuppatea, glug it like a parched plant – it scalds my throat – and pack my cabin-bag. Outside, the screen says, it is minus five. The floor shudders. Earth swings near with insect towns, field-patterns, roads of string, all seen through the wrong end of a telescope. TAXI-TALK