4 Poems from an emerging poet.

LONG-HAUL

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 

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