Handful

Handful

 

A handful of people

arrived by boat today,

yesterday; the day before -

cast off their pine oars,

hands of sore blisters raw,

and draggled themselves 

up the shore.

 

Gooseberry crumbled

on fair beaches

where the white cliffs soar,

dreamed of those who slept

on a black ocean floor

and maybe they wept.

 

And your grouses shriek

go back, go back

attack from vantage places

on clattered moor

for Swallows and Amazons

don’t live here no more.

 

No Peter Duck, No Missee Lee,

the land from which

all visions flee,

where imagination died,

and there’s something rank

that lives inside.

 

They’ve collected invalidity,

our one-sticks.

Would like to club you dead,

but knock-up greeting cards instead:

Fuck off, fuck off,

piss off home, bro, 

you ain’t welcome

to our bread.

And she keeps a life-size placard

of Nigel Farage

and calls herself teacher.

 

Swarm greenfly of Beelzebub!

Infest carparks of district hotels,

invade quaysides by harbours,

one hand free for swigging lager -

know-nowts scream something obscene,

cursing what you should have been.

 

Beg you never to forget -

no pity lives across this land

no outstretched hand

to take a cup of kindness yet.