Six hundred and fifty
now reduced to forty –
there the forgotten
forever prisoners
under the tight grip
of our Guantanamo’s
barbed existence –
to be kept alive –
in your own grave –
Saifullah’s words –
until the end of time –
until the buried future
They will soon take command
of the scattered pill boxes –
those red brick squatters
sat above river crossings –
built for strategic purposes –
and to fool the nescient
of a Maginot Line in England –
to withstand our invasion
There will be working parties
to restore the squat outposts –
drinking tea and sipping gin
as the last of Locarno evaporates
The new guard will take to parades
under friendly church hall beams –
taught to guide the landing parties
into concentration camps in Kent –
and you will shift the weight of anger
by reposting others’ indignant shouts
from your padded cell of social media –
which is how all of this begins
Hate drove a van
at people again,
hate is alive in
ignorant men,
hate is spewed
at dinner tables,
hate is consumed
in social ensembles,
hate is served up,
a spat out mantra,
because hate
needs hate,
a hateful dogma.
