Yarls Wood

Driving slow through snowfall, unfamiliar

gears, roads; the forecast is blizzard;

morning light spills from the moon.

We move through winding sheets, fields

of sleet, memorising exits, warning signs

in orange brail. There are no people

in this white on white, just windscreen wipers,

waving. An American girl is sleeping,

snow still falling in her dreams.

We roll quietly onto tarmac, ghostly under

Arctic fall. Past the track for Red Bull racing,

signposts for the Bar and Grill. Razor wire

greets us; alien hands scan bodies, bags.

We wait for clearance, stand in line for

photos, fingerprints. Snow has numbed us;

uniforms have trained us to obey. Outside,

the earth is witness to imprisonment by stealth;

freedoms snatched; voices pressed to mute.