On a Sunday a few weeks ago, I had some free time. With two small children and a busy weekly routine, free time is not something I feel I often have. But it came and curled up on my lap like a purring cat and - truthfully - I almost felt uncomfortable with the prospect. It can take a lot of ‘unlearning’ to really relax and do things that have no immediate outcome or purpose. So, I decided to take my youngest daughter for a walk - a walk at a leisurely pace, with no fixed destination.
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Only the other day, two separate friends enlightened me on the shocking aftermath of music festivals (I have never been to one and even if I had, I might not have known what happens in the days and weeks after the mass exodus). Things are just left behind without a care in the world. By things I mean tents, bikes, clothes, shoes - real possessions, not just crisp packets and beer cans. It takes charities and volunteers to clear up the mess and sometimes pass on these discarded items to those in need. My thoughts immediately turned to refugee camps, where the scene looks similar but the reality is another life, another world. It filled me with horror to think of these two ‘campsites’ and how diametrically opposed they are, and yet how they share some absurd and tragic characteristics: both exist at the border of ordered society, and both are waste grounds of so much human capacity and potential. With these ideas in my mind, I wrote a poem.
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