A Mercedes pregnant with two thousand apples
waddles unaided to the checkpoint,
labours vitamin wealth across the frontier.
Beside me on the bus, Zorica, tall, serene,
ponders her new morality tale for TV kids.
Lake Ohrid's silvery waters forget the future.
A millennium turns; history demands its kilo
of flesh from Macedonia. Obedient guns roar.
Refugees scatter like spillikins. Pure sweet Zorica
casts her lot with the would-be cleansers.
If you've any comments on this poem,
would be pleased to hear from you.