This isn't a poem, as I gave up writing poetry a long time ago. It's a protracted thought, trying to make peace internally with the place I find myself.
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I am a
Dorsetman. And my beloved county
has a brutal
and a sacred past.
The Romans
scoured it, fired arrowheads into Celtic backs at Maiden Castle.
Cromwell’s
men shot the local lads on Hambledon Hill
where I
pulled up the ragwort thirty years ago.
Six grim
souls sat round the oak at Tolpuddle
to talk
about a different sort of world
where a man
earns enough to buy his children bread –
and they
still sit there as we pass on the Dorchester road.
I am an
Englishman. And my beloved country
has a brutal
and a sacred past.
Battered one
by Athelstan in the face of the Danes,
it grew from
the fields a law, a sort of liberty, that never quite died
and the
Normans never quite grasped.
Red and red
ran the ditches around Towton – the ruins cried with crows – and crowns got
smelted
In that
first black blast-furnace at fiery Coalbrookdale.
That, and
the ships, the billowing wooden ships,
were what we
sent around the world.
I am a
Briton. And my beloved union-state
has a brutal
and a sacred past.
It was
always the means by which the greater duped the lesser:
and yet the
lesser mined it for their own advantage
and by some
miracle recoined the frauds of Empire Day and Flag
into a kind
of good,
and
clambered into spitfires to defend it.
Somehow we
escaped revolution. Somehow we evaded invasion.
Somehow we
let go that stain across the globe we called an Empire,
and made
what was left work, at least a bit, at least sometimes.
My county
and my country and my union-state
are not the
property of the brutes and the deceivers.
At the very
least I have the right to share them.
Those flags,
those bloody banners, are also mine,
And you, you
will not seize them for your own.
They have a
different ancestry from what you think,
and a
different future.
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