They crashed through the whisper of the trees with their diggers and tartan flasks,
Yellow flashing lights and brown-pink earth
Steam rising from their mugs and shoulders
Mud-clogged boots, holiday plans, unruly hair
You couldn't call their organisation military, not exactly.
Bill told Joe that that was near enough
and they slung their blue and green tarpaulins over the mounds that they had just created.
Forest leaves shuddered at such foreign sounds of new plastic in the breeze.
They hadn't wanted to come, those that had, all those aeons ago,
embedded themselves at the frontier between land and sea.
They were displaced in violence and abandoned in silence
here in this refugee camp where the streets remain un-named and impassable
They watch, helpless, as the land creeps slowly towards them by spore and tendril,
An advancing Borg, assimilation inevitable.
A winter sun slants to touch bark and blade with harsh light and no warmth.
In the stillness of the day, leaf mold fills the nostrils, expelled in clouds that smudge the air.
Memory, inexact, snagged on the red-tipped thorns of the ever approaching brambles.