Crossing the Frontier

Crossing the frontier they were stopped in time,

Told, quite politely, they would have to wait:

Passports in order, nothing to declare

And surely holding hands was not a crime

Until they saw how, ranged across the gate,

All their most formidable friends were there.

Wearing his conscience like a crucifix,

Her father, rampant, nursed the Family Shame;

And, armed wlth their old-fashioned dinner-gong,

His aunt, who even when they both were six,

Had just to glance towards a childish game

To make them feel that they were doing wrong.

And both their mothers, simply weeping floods,

Her head-mistress, his boss, the parish priest,

And the bank manager who cashed their cheques;

The man who sold him his first rubber-goods;

Dog Fido, from whose love-life, shameless beast,

She first observed the basic facts of sex.

They looked as though they had stood there for hours;

For years; perhaps for ever. In the trees

Two furtive birds stopped courting and flew off;

While in the grass beside the road the flowers

Kept up their guilty traffic with the bees.

Nobody stirred. Nobody risked a cough.

Nobody spoke. The minutes ticked away;

The dog scratched idly. Then, as parson bent

And whispered to a guard who hurried in,

The customs-house loudspeakers with a bray

Of raucous and triumphant argument

Broke out the wedding march from Lohengrin.

He switched the engine off: “We must turn back.”

She heard his voice break, though he had to shout

Against a din that made their senses reel,

And felt his hand, so tense in hers, go slack.

But suddenly she laughed and said: “Get out!

Change seatsl Be quickl” and slid behind the wheel.

And drove the car straight at them with a harsh,

Dry crunch that showered both with scraps and chips,

Drove through them; barriers rising let them pass

Drove through and on and on, with Dad’s moustache

Beside her twitching still round waxen lips

And Mother’s tears still streaming down the glass.

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External links

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Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: My Lord A-Hunting: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Bonie Moor-Hen: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Prologue: Spoken by Mr. Woods on his benefit-night, Monday, 16th April, 1787 by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Verses Intended To Be Written Below A Noble Earl’s Picture: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epistle To Mrs. Scott: Gudewife of Wauchope-House, Roxburghshire. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Extempore In The Court Of Session: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Bonie Dundee: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Rattlin’, Roarin’ Willie: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Mr. William Smellie -A Sketch: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To Miss Logan, With Beattie’s Poems, For A New-Year’s Gift, Jan. 1, 1787: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Address To A Haggis: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Address To Edinburgh: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Yon Wild Mossy Mountains: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: A Winter Night : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On Sensibility: Fragment by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epistle To Major Logan: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Tam Samson’s Elegy: When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.-R.B., 1787. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Composed In Spring: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s: Presented to the Author by a Lady. by Robert Burns

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