A Saturday evening, cricket in camp

This is the first piece I’ve written since starting to work in the unofficial refugee camp know as ‘The Jungle’ in Calais at the start of August. The camp is going to be evicted soon but there is and will still be an enormous need for donations of clothes, tents, bedding, food and money. Please follow Help Refugees on Facebook for information on how you can further support efforts in Calais.

The sky’s furnace orange

and it’s deep iron grey
meet above the mesh,
the razor wire curls

and dust clouds.
End to end

to end to end.
Four games, lengthways.
Bright green nylon covered
rubber’s pop on wood, and then its flight.
Cheered catches,
collective gasps when there’s a fall.
And the chatter,
of sandy kneed, crook legged
lines of crouched spectators.
The rule of thirds, almost to a tee
in this frame, a snapshot, but never that.
And across the barren space,
a strip called no mans land, there are men and life.

People forget, or not, for a while


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