On coach after coach after coach we came –
from the suburbs and cities, from hills, rivers and the coast,
and from every point between – spilling
into country lanes, all fenced and muddy.
A tide of sisterhood, brothers also,
to flood the nuclear valley.
We knew on which side of the wire we stood,
believed that arms were for linking.
Mostly the papers mocked us: Kremlin’s April Fools, they said.
And how we laughed.
With unfurled banners, chants and song
told awkward truths. Filled the air with agitation.
Each a cell in some larger mass, stretching
again and again, long like elastic –
palms fanned, out and downward, as if before a firing squad –
to line the fourteen miles:
Burghfield – Aldermaston – Greenham
fingertip to fingertip, source to end design connected.
There, in our Easter rising, a silent moment:
we felt the future slam into us, electric.
iv. 2023
