Military Transport: Cyprus 2018

The writer is waiting. It’s his first drive

To an army school on an army base,

Unsure what vehicle will arrive,

Whisk him to the poetic front. His face

Is fixed, shoulders back and feet apart

He looks again at his itinerary

‘Military transport.’ Be still his heart

As he contemplates what that might be,

Maybe a jeep or a tank will rumble in

To the hotel car park and bear him off

And like an army general deliver him

With the sound of trumpets and all that stuff.

Then a taxi, not even khaki brown,

And the poet’s dreams come tumbling down.

© James Nash 2018

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