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Lyn Moir

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Border Crossing (Hegyeshalom)

Insouciant, like any Habsburg petty prince
strutting his stuff
between the fleshpots of Vienna and the twin
outposts of Buda-Pest,
careless of frontiers, languages, currencies,
we swan through controls
talking nineteen to the dozen on our mobiles,
polyglot, a sheaf
of multinational passports fanned out
like a hand of cards.

How recently was it our battered car,
en route back from the west,
its outward cargo sandwiches, return payload
soft toilet paper,
was searched above, below, inside and out,
our papers scrutinised
for inconsistencies? Each puffed-up clerk
in uniform, anxious
for a moment in the sun, emboldened
by cap badges and gun,
took pleasure in the democratic art
of making border crossings fun.

Now they have been retrained, reschooled in charm,
expressions rearranged,
disarming, although not of course disarmed.
A major expedition then,
with visas, stamps, red tape, red flags
and international fuss,
we whip across for coffee now, a concert
by the Dom and back for tea; though
interpersonal borders demilitarised
in theory, and treaties signed, we man
our individual checkpoints constantly.

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