Come, where once the pavement burnt your feet
even in the cool of midnight.
You do not recognise it now.
Here, as Pershore Road turns into Dogpool Lane,
the echo of a bus shelter.
And recollection of that face:
its caricature thick lips with dreadlocks dripping
like molten tar, over a Union Jack.
Tear it down – the paste is wet,
no razorblades. Roll up the hate.
‘Get him!’ No one calls it fear
when yells are thrown across the shadowed street.
There is no time. No thoughts
of how you’ll hedgehog curl, protect your head
and softer parts. Rinse blood from broken teeth.
Only run. With widened eyes, leave behind
a glimpse of braces and brown leather.
Trust your speed, feel its flow.
Know which covert alleys will bring you safely home,
your unused fist unclenched.
vi. 2026
This poem grew from an old photo that popped up my social media feed. It was from February 1978 and showed a hastily arranged demonstration through Digbeth in Birmingham. The National Front had been active in the locality at that time, using, in particular, not flags but an openly racist poster. The image shown was a take-down used, later that same year, for a roots reggae compilation LP. The real poster can be seen here:
ReplyDeletehttps://historyinposters.tumblr.com/post/94815646113/national-front-english-nazi-skinhead-party
My intention here is not to claim any heroism, rather to reflect that sometimes we must respond spontaneously, even at risk to ourselves.