The March by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

For people like Joe and Jaz

A thousand flags joust the nationless sky
red, white, blue.
Those heavens are the home of our ancestors
of black, white, like me and you.

A thousand rags are the immigrants armour
St George of Palestine –
a life in bags from Drones of May and Obama,
Oh my darling Clementine.

A soldiers tags sway from her Mother’s neck
St Karen of Pwllheli,
A life in bags she is carried by Welsh Dragoons-
Mis-sold as British on telly.

A thousand noises yell violently what is British
none of them women.
A Sikh boy whispers silently, scared and skittish
His grandad fell at Ypres in British linen.

Amongst a plague of selective patriots I found the world
Aylan in the tide unfurled.

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