An iron fist or brolly dome,
both folly for democracy
when folk are bound by tribal chains,
identity, roots, family;
fig trees, father’s olive grove
are axed, sap drip as martyrs’ blood.
Believing your own nonsense talk –
that self-delusion gladly walks
with assumed allies in the plot
of land, wealth, power they would not lose;
exported loyalty looks back
in winsome recall, time, place, space.
But would, should, could, conditional
where hearts and minds now blown away –
missiles for freedom gone astray;
corrupt find critics on their side,
a unity borne others’ blood –
the liar’s breath exhaled by all.
Old order passes, rise of new,
reshaping of alliances –
yet still fence borders need renewed
where wire and comments duly barbed;
what of the future, babes in arms,
when traded for war, ever more?
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com