Читать книгу Sanctuary - Martyn Halsall - Страница 9

Foreign Correspondent

You touch down, wondering about language,

your need for a translator, your contacts book

thin on the ground. You face deadlines to update

news running for centuries, to find a new

line beyond headlines of decline, or saviour.

You are set between last flight, next empty morning,

sit at the back, watch, attempt the low profile

of a holy visitor or resident angel, caught

between being yourself, and representing who sent you.

So many potential angles: those identities

carved for a screen, those poets poised by the door

for a quick exit, Jacobite prisoners, that idea of collecting

stars to roof the psalms, graffiti, translating runes.

You remember those sitting by phones, waiting for a story.