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Sometimes I can’t see out of my car without the windows open by Bridget Khursheed

Inside I am listening to Udo Lindenberg

wearing a feather boa in the seventies

drinking kirsch snakebite. There are several

lorries ahead and they all contain animals

or quarried stone; an accident

could reinstate acres of field and dyke.

Outside there’s a pink light pressing through twilight

like a bruise, the snappy teeth of pine

all snarled by winds; but I beast the weather,

get the mills generating electricity.

They set to it: all the commuters pay my tithe in bread and sugar

until the salt-licked windows bow down and reveal

that bit of moor again. And it’s looking the other way.


Bridget Khursheed is a poet and geek based in the Scottish Borders; a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award winner for poetry, her work appears in publications including The Rialto, The London Magazine, New Writing Scotland, Ambit, The Cormorant, Abridged and Gutter; she is completing an MSc in cybersecurity. @khursheb


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