A Year

The airport terminal is much unchanged from last year.
A steady shuffle of outbound feet,
Perfume branding and plastic menus,
Whilst sloth-like carcasses form
Of weary traveller and uniformed worker
Draped unconventionally on armchair, table top and floor.

The green and white coffee carton dispenses a familiar fix,
Matched only by the predictable rituals of luggage check
And fluorescent surrounds of each truncate
From here to there.
I am mentally attuned: an auto-pilot.

Yet, feverishly the days and weeks of separation
Between the last fleeting steps through this place
Dismantle any chance of calm.
For everything I have lost, against all that I seek to gain,
Equates, for now at least, to a vacuum of fear and intrigue
And space.

This year, this moment, these thoughts.



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