The border is a river, a mountain range, a line on the map, a sentry post, a wall, barbed wire. The border is a way of thinking, a national debate, it’s something your mother embroidered, it’s a frame surrounding a picture, a passport, a margin, the edge of something, a riot of flowers.

What are borders? Are they rivers, mountains, lines on a map or our own fears?


The news warned of killer hornets, jelly-fish the size of dinner plates, snakes swimming through the sewage pipes of the city. The news warned of winter blizzards, soaring heat and hailstones the size of footballs. The news did not give warning about the broken step at the bottom of her garden path. Nor did it warn how statistics play tricks. In this way the news was not news at all but was closer to a fantastical imagining like a unicorn prancing through town or a fish pedaling a bicycle.

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The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths