Poetry

Third Prize Winner: The Wordsworth Prize 2017


Checkpoint

You can see a red line where our country ends. 
On one side, pumpkins and graves. On the other,
the future. The guards are checking cars for smuggled
goods. We have hidden our memories in Granddad,
who looks so innocent, so confused –
 
a single rough word startles him into tears.
He sits upright in the middle of the back seat
packed round with children, keeping his hand
clamped over the mouth of the littlest one,
who knows all the songs.