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Free agents, this is how we made our way,
our used car swerving through the new estates.
It was late springtime and the fields of oil-seed rape

flashed out their yellow signal to the sky.
We travelled incognito and we didn't cast a vote.
Night found us parked up on some empty beach

to watch the moon come clear and fade.
The European flag was everywhere—twelve stars
encircling nothing on a ground of midnight blue.

The cities had no feature and the landscape had no soul.
Girls waved from the corner as we hit the open road,
our every exit covered by a camera on a pole.

Ian Parks

Smokestack Books

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