Pim Claridge

Life in the Scottish Borders, one stanza at a time


Eyes screwed against the sand
he watched the dust devil-dance
across no mans land,
felt the demon twist of dormant dreams
become reality.
suffocating sand curtains
hide killer eyes
from another playground.
a paper blowing becomes a tank,
a dune, old iron gates,
tarmac underfoot, too hot to touch.
a far off whistle
brings a rush of blue blazers,
polka dots, blurring the hot horizon.
red sun falls on polished corridors
where camels, wrapped in mirage haze,
pass, and disappear.
sandwich wrappers mix with shells
from desert guns, and bring
the taint of dusty classrooms, close.
Doc martens distant dust-shuffle
grates on gritty wind, and
sand stitched eyes struggle
to find a friend,
who is not there.