Claire Walker



Some thought it didn’t mean much:
Two short diagonal waves of a hand,
a light pencil groove into paper.

Hate hides in small boxes.
Each one, opened at the count,
seeps its rotten guts to defenceless air.
It unplaits hopeful fingers, leaves them empty.

We all stand at the roadside,
toes curling the lip of cracked pavements,
afraid of where we go from here,
squinting at blind corners.