At an African border,
Waiting, as one does
I watched a woman
Gather what I had just
Spat out. Seeds of grapefruit.
Borders, mapped edges of land
where I have to stop
The planning mind,
Suspend the certainty.
Here others power
And identity prevail
My direction in the whim
Of hands to lift and drop
A passport through.
At the African border crossing
With the darkness of fires
And around organic sounds,
I was allowed to cross
while 2 Dutch cyclists were turned back,
back 20 miles on an African red track.
Why us not them, I asked
‘You are old’, the border guard explained.
Kalikellett 