The Impatient Plant

The Himalayan Balsam’s scent
clogs – a laundry swill of smells –

lingering – invasive – out-of-place –
underlining the call to action –

Since its foolish introduction
it’s no longer welcome here

Almost sticky – swollen with pollen –
it waits with near-primed seeds

until it fires ripe-wide explosions
finding further incursions

Balsam Bashing – its removal –
is now a nationwide fixation –

The bent stem-cutters – the pullers –
are impatient traditionalists

who tug – with gardening gloves –
working hard at their final solution

Disputed Questions of Truth

Aquinas floats in his grave
and Socrates will not swallow –
their thoughts have been inverted –
their words are sounding hollow

A strategia della tensione
is courted by the State –
those clowns in the Senate
will let their votes bring hate

Salvini is banning love –
he cracks his sharpened tongue –
as his men buff their batons
to swipe the foreign sons

He’s shutting corner shops early –
the dens of drugs and plots –
he refuses ships safe harbour –
those boats which bear the lost

The different are set to suffer
as Salvini cracks his whip
on the skin of migrant settlers
who had found their hope in risk

The borders close on promises
as the ports are mopped of tears –
the Far Right drops the barriers
to block their far-right fears

Samara

Anemochory takes this seamless child
of these immigrants – landed from Europe –
and urges her to fly

We named her Samara because of her wings
and the hope that she will carry
our future further

Her family has been resident here – four centuries –
but historically are the dark foreigners
among landscape and cities

She is Anglicised among childhood memories –
kids awe at her presumption to fly –
We call her spinning Jenny

Murmur

On the rushed film set
we were re-hushed
for the recording
of a wide shot on B

and we – the extras –
dressed as coppers –
waited in the
bale-tipped barn –

Turning was bellowed
by the unsmiling AD
forcing a quietened
conference of uniforms –

there holding a debate
on colour and race
in hardly whispers
which were kept low –

a murmured conspiracy –
We acted without scripts
and mimed our interactions –
Nothing good was said.

Any High Street

It has become a confusion
of charity store drop offs –
butted to trim nail bars
and empty estate agents –
and now this English town
has a gaudy tanning shop

The bench-rested watch
the parading mothers –
taking note of the too-bared
shoulders and legs
the unnatural colour
of those buggy shovers –

these age-anchored repeat
their Daily Mail complaints
about floods of immigrants
as the pale-faced punters book
to turn brown in the new salon
of not-very-English tans.

Englishmess

Reduce the Brits – take away their tea –
and Jaguar – Mini – and Wedgwood pottery –

All sold off – the last of British treasures –
what’s now left to make Britain special?

The Great British dinner – battered fish and chips?
Actually a recipe from Jewish immigrants –

The gold we hold in the Bank of England?
No – it’s ‘ta’ to Huguenots for banking millions –

Ah – nothing more Albion than our ancient royals?
Nein – migrant blue blood now long-despoiled –

But Punch ‘n’ Judy – that traditional beach farce?
Alas Italian – their commedia dell’arte –

OK – Saint George – a true Sainted Brit?
No – a Syrian son – with a dragon – illlegit –

Right – polo – how English – on the lawns of Windsor?
Sadly for you from the dusty kingdom of Persia –

That mothers’ ruin poured from gin distilleries?
Been shipped in barrels from overseas –

Pigeon racing – ’tis Northern – an ‘Oop-North’ fancy?
Nay lad – flown in by Belgian bird-loving royalty –

The Womens’ Institute – cake and Englishness?
Sorry – Canada made it and Wales repossessed –

That well-mannered bear – who as kids we well knew?
Ah – even Paddington Bear is a foreigner too –

This country of confusions – imports and invention –
is at its British best when admitting immigration

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