THE ENEMY WITHIN is occupier’s

cant for native truculence - DOWN WANTONS

DOWN, shrilled as a battle cry. Their law

is checkpoints, riot vans in trysting-places,

curfew’s stale enclosure; yet overground

the guisers swarm, chanting rebellion’s

snatches of song, the oldest catches known.

Men stand together, shirtless in the sun

at Orgreave; women crouch beside the baton-

struck and trampled. Gobbets of scrap metal

go volleying over, improvised defence

against short-shielded masters of concussion.

Some fall to savagery; some rise to courage.

The rider leans in; the cosh begins its swing.