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Guernsey Arts

Chris Kinsey, Powys, Wales

Poems on the Buses Exhibition

All morning in a windowless room
learning to stem the trickiness of bleeds
rolling healthy strangers into the recovery position
thumping compressions into a dummy with no vital signs.

Lunchtime, I wipe the sting of antiseptic from my lips
go out to clear my airway with a draught of deep September.

Jet vapours unravel like bandages
though the sky over rowans is cloudless.
These scarlet trees have spread their protection
from lone hill-steads to town’s corrugated factories.

I pick a sprig to ward of afternoon’s harm, carry
a cluster of summer scorch back to artificial light.