Never About The Colour

Never the colour, never about the colour
Or religion provided they kept it to themselves.
it was always about the jobs they took
the way they undercut wages
About not speaking our language
about danger to our women,
And we had to beware, beware.
Because live and let live is all very well,
but some bleeding hearts don't understand

It's about protecting our culture.

I might believe you if I was 4
And hadn't heard the same claim made
Every year of my life.
Yes, it was the colour til it couldn't be the colour
And religion til it couldn't be religion,
And language til everyone spoke your language
and borders when your borders were safe,
Then suddenly it was about protecting a culture
As if an ancient history of beauteous tongue
would rip like a wet paper plate
dismayed at the notion of difference.
That's not the culture; that's you.

Because long before the Muslims, it was Blacks
and long before the Blacks it was the Irish
And long before the Irish, it was the French
And long before the French, it was the Scots
And long before them all it was the Poor,
Among them, You; And that is why you hid
behind reasons to hate and to belong
You stepped up on the ladder of despising,
When all you had to do was kick it down.
And when they see you, your old masters smile;
Never the colour, never about the colour.

Hmm. Well, best describe this as 'free verse,' I suppose. As this is a public post, I wonder if there is a need to specify that this is not about the behaviour of poor people in general, but about a specific phenomenon. But I think it is clear enough.

Yesterday

A year ago yesterday I first received the news about Mark.

Yesterday I went to a talk, presented by a magnificent head. The body might be that of a well- kept older gent, the face was that of a Hollywood Caeser, chiselled, aquiline and fascinating in a sexless way, the white hair and ice chip blue eyes distracting from the unavoidable suspicion that he was taking this opportunity to show us his holiday snaps. The next talk is by 'King' Arthur Pendragon, who has been arrested 44 times. The last time I saw Arthur, we were out there with the druids on primrose hill, and he brushed my face with a rose, calling me a Fairy Queen. The most memorable time before that was when we both attended a wedding and he challenged larians to a 'wizards' duel', determined to coax my man into joining the Loyal Arthurian Warband. For all his rock and roll lifestyle, he has played a major part in gaining public access to Stonehenge for solstices, and that's quite an achievement. Maybe I'll go.

I also met Mark's best friend whose recovery from those catastrophic times last year appears excellent, his beard luxurious, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. We sat and talked a while. He is writing again.

My visit to the doctor was mainly good. There's another test he wants to run to be absolutely sure, and I'll go back tomorrow for it. Suddenly I am worried that I may die before resolving Mark's work, leaving my work and Mark's work unfinished for the next member of the old crew, who themselves will die before sorting Mark's work, my work and their work and so on ad infinitum, until the last chum croaks under an avalanche of unfinished projects and rehomed cats.

Psh. Mark, I am sorry to be so slow, Hope you are OK, if you are at all x