Watches the joggers run past the flats as she towels her hair dry. Hums along to the radio and eats toast, drinks orange juice. Waits at the bus stop where all the men cough into the cold wet street. Stares at the passing shops, swaying as the bus jerks. Walks up past the park and hangs her coat in the back of the café and begins work. In her mind, her cousin – blankets across her shoulders, running through the streets and tugging little Darja along and squeezing into the minibus, fleeing from the tanks rumbling on the horizon. It hurts.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts