Cold
the clammy cement
sucks our naked feet
a rheumy yellow bulb
lights a damp grey wall
the stubbled grass
wet with three o’clock dew
is black with glittery edges;
we sit on the concrete,
stuff with our fingers
the sugarless pap
into our mouths
then labour erect;
form lines;
steel ourselves into fortitude
or accept an image of ourselves
numb with resigned acceptance;
the grizzled senior warder comments:
‘Things like these
I have no time for;
they are worse than rats;
you can only shoot them.’
Overhead
the large frosty glitter of the stars
the Southern Cross flowering low;
the chains on our ankles
and wrists
that pair us together
jangle
glitter.
We begin to move
awkwardly.