Climbing through densities of mist
around hairpins that seem to sling us out
at nothing, we're to be counted, checked
at this former frontline border post.
Ghost structures, like scratched marks
on thick paper, are watchtowers,
military installations stripped
of wiring, glass, recycled as momento mori.
Where troop movements occupied observers,
customs officers make desultory searches,
complain about paperwork deficiencies,
inclemencies of closing-in weather.
Despite government's stated aspirations,
talk of accession has got no further
than these mirroring symbols,
fenced-off strips of no man's land
caught between flagged territories.