Where are the borders?

A border is defined as “The line which divides one country from the other” or “The edge or boundary of something, or the part near it.”-Cambridge English dictionary, 2016.
If you look at a pencil line under a microscope you will see that there is a grading of the line, a soft blurring of graphite particles on either side of the dark centre with no actual line apparent.

300 million years ago Gondwanaland merged with Laurasia to create the supercontinent Pangaea . We were not even in existence.

Where are the borders?
These are both invisible and born of tectonic furnace all at once. Does it matter in some urgent way to know where a line lies after such baptism of fire?

In the cave I see the handprint outline  of iron oxides scraped from the cold earth and spray-blown through a bone.
The same hand as my own.
Where are the borders? Between them and us, then and now?

From the Baltic shores of Schleswig Holstein people migrated scraping frost from bulwarks for drinking water..
Landing on the British Isles they ate apples and rosehips spitting out
bitter and irritant seeds.

Where are the borders? Send them all back.

Lucy in the sky with diamonds was on the radio when the first huddle of proto-hominid bones was revealed.
A riveting together of hazy ancestors to the self by evolutionary nails-hammered through brittle sternum
splintering monkey from super-fool further still….

Where are the borders? Are we still animals? Are we beyond natural redemption? What happens after we prioritise ourselves?

In the ’80s my friend had shit posted
through her front door in honour
of her Pakistani heritage.
If you had asked her, she was culturally closer to Kate Bush
than Benazir Bhutto
and always sun bathed.
Later that night her abusers ordered Chicken Jalfrezi.
Where are the borders? When did mustard seeds first arrive in England?
Can you have roast beef without
the neon smear of Colman’s?

Mahatma Ghandi championed swadeshi or home economy
and urged national production by local means,
as well as peaceful protest.
He celebrated a diverse and unified India regardless of languages, cultures, colour.

UKIP also supports national production by local means.
UKIP feel that immigrants are
draining the NHS of its life blood.
Sir Magdi Yacoub is the world’s leading transplant pioneer; a British surgeon of Egyptian descent..
If you like Benson & Hedges
he’s for you.
Best survival outcomes.

Pre-migration predictions of an aging indigenous population

stressing the NHS with systematic decommissioning and dismantling are not a back story.

Where are the borders? Was your baby saved by the care of a Rwandan I.T.U. nurse?? Did her warmth make a difference? Does it matter who saves your baby? Which babies should be saved?

When I was young you could sleep in empty buildings with birds nesting inside and dance at rig parties after
daylight had burned out,
resting on still useful sofas, encountering different people and their voices in a human loom with sweat dripping off the walls.
Now public space is privately patrolled with coffee sold to you in
the same disposable cups tasting of Colombian children’s hands and pesticide.
Where are the borders? Does globalisation work? Who gives anyone the right to determine what works and what does not?

I am selling your kid an A.K.A. because I can. What happens in your garden is your problem. You are in charge of the rules of play but I can sell your kid anything I like and this erodes any sense of rules of play.
When your kid accidentally kills you and comes looking for a new mother  and a good new life do not expect me to house him. It is nothing to do with me.

Where are the borders? Soldiers are soldiers, even aged 9yrs. They would rather play Mario than Call of Duty- that’s an 18 rating FFS.

In this intimacy of breathe
and sweat, neural voltage on high,
a sighing of mountain ridge views
and sparkling river valleys in bed
I become you and you become me.
Where are the borders?
Who is it I really desire? You? Me?
The truth? The body? Does it matter?

I can’t recall who you are
although there is a striking sense of
familiarity like I know I should do…
I won’t be anxious though; this happens a lot- it’s a new reality.
Being a writer, I would say it feels dystopian.
Were you the neighbour who called
round with a bag of apples?
Were you the nurse from that other place?
I can’t help but like you…
but how can you say you are my daughter?
Where are the borders to where
my memory can take me?
I hear that reading stories can
open up such borders
and are being used to help
people like me.

I believe it could help- stories that is.
It could help people like you and me,
to push at the borders, boundaries, limits, what is known, what is safe, what is accepted, what is contained on our behalf by others.
Do you wish to be contained?
How free are you? How do you exercise your freedoms?

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