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Contents
Poetry

Europe, June 2016

The flight path on the screen

across the aisle is a green line

joining the dots from Manchester

through Amsterdam, Bucharest,

now Istanbul, now Baghdad.

Far below us the Tigris River seeps

like history from the Taurus Mountains.

Europe is an idea not a market

the French president is saying

on BBC World News though tomorrow

most news will be of stock market

fears, the depression of investment.

The prime minister of the UK

has just resigned, repeating

in his final words, as if at a funeral,

his love for his country.

The little plane on the map

is towing the bright green line

to the dot that is Basra.

Najur the Indian boy is four years old;

he offers me his crisps,

his blanket, his Scooby Doo show

on TV – everything he has.

He counts twenty in English,

then in Hindi and calls me aunty

tucking his mother’s and my knees

under his blanket.

The plastic fold-out table is littered

with plastic cups and plastic cutlery.

I think of Auden,

from his dive on Fifty-second Street

watching his world unfold.

An... Read more

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From Griffith Review Edition 57: Perils of Populism © Copyright Griffith University & the author.

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