Borderland Poem by James Mills

Low and squat -ugly, like a
scab on the heathery hill,
outpost on the road to Donegal.
Manned by boys; nervous; homesick.

Four of us over the border.
a weekend of diddly-dee music -
luck of the Irish looking after the rest.

He waved us in as we knew he would
wanting ID, maybe some respect
or just diversion on this long Friday.
Three of us half drunk the driver afeard we'd
give any buck, for that risked hours
in concrete incommunicado.
We said as little as Irishmen can;
they kept us till near closing time anyway,
One squaddie said his name was Alex-
what he’d be at in Wigan on a weekend.

Same as us, near enough,
except for the guns and the
history cloaking these hills.