YE ARE MANY hailed from overseas

by megaphone, the poet rising from his couch.

But were they ever, your people, leonine?

Diasporic on their home turf, even,

like ex-pats in training; swept out

from slum-clearance, unregenerate

mall denizens. Picture them biro’d in

with small defiance, misdirected pride

answering for squandered strength.

Say we have greatness in us; show it

where it is. That it is greatly

to be feared is shown elsewhere, in mirror-

visor, reinforced perspex riot-shield;

the sabre swung from horseback, cleaving the ruck.

* * *

Returning to the poem that made me want to write poetry: Shelley’s The Masque of Anarchy. More to come, I hope.