There are too many empty spaces.
Desert stretches of things we ought to know;
movements and people and crimes
we should have learnt as well
as Wordsworth’s daffodils
or the world wars in Europe.
We are accompanied
in our centric – lonely in our fight
against all things ‘not right’.
And our British tongues
rattle with empty statements
like graveyards of an evening.
There is no oasis. No home
we have built to be proud of.
Just these desert places
pushing beaten hearts
into the corners of crude vellum
maps we cannot bear to pull taut.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020