Wind Rushes Through

You look directly
Into the lens
And what passes
For a nation’s soul,
Between the ad breaks
Attention spans online,
The toll behind each scroll.

Your eyes ask why
The place you call home
Isn’t prepared to pay
To treat the timebomb inside you
Thats ticktocking
Your days away.

Your flat is TV-tidy,
Towels folded by the sink.
Behind you sits a box of tea,
Leaves picked painstakingly
In a long-lost colony.

The fabric of truth is stretched
Like a blanket too small
For a bed you didn’t make
And can’t sleep in
For fears of arrears,
Whispers of peers,
Being turfed out on your ears.

You helped lift the country
From its war-weary knees
And now it’s turned its back
On those here before 73.

Colder, harder, the wind rushes through
Your window half open
While the door closes to.

But guilt stalks between the pillars,
Scrapes its scuffed shoes
On power’s polished corridors
As it’s dragged into the open,
No longer having just cause
To hide its claws behind locked laws.

And this has always been your way,
To walk on through it all,
The barbed-wire twist of taunts
For elder statesmen and tiny tots,
Insults spat on the pavement,
Blood spilled by bus stops.

A world away a mother waits,
An island isolated soul,
For home is where her children are
Until good news at last
Washes up on her lonely shore.

Speed you now across the waves
And in between the clouds.
A new wind ushers change you can hold,
To bring you home at last
Along Britain’s old and potholed roads.


Poem by Andy Siddle © 2018