Sat in a hipster eatery at the Monument,
grazing on a poke bowl with edamame beans,
the dwindling noise of a city centre protest
plays out in front of us.
Viewed through a bay window,
this corporate spectator box
has the disconnect of a telly browser
stumbling upon some panoramic action.
Say it loud, say it clear, refugees are welcommm—
Till transactions drown out the megaphone,
chants are muffled by slurps of udon noodles
as muted mouths are turned away in Dover,
bellies left empty in overstuffed hostels,
bodies forgotten in graves on our ocean’s floor.
Half listening, part-time supporting – I chew on,
cringe at attendance figures,
remember when it was all about
boots on the ground.
Do my comrades of old, ever think –
Where did he cop out to?
A march from A to B –
what did it achieve beyond a feel-good factor,
meeting like- minded hopefuls,
the sound of my own ego shouting
till voice turned hoarse?
Say it loud, say it clearrrr—
– Can we have a Geordie Springs?
My wife says the British protest in orderly queues,
sign permission slips, seek written approvals to riot.
We need to take inspiration from the Arabs, the French,
spark a revolution by setting ourselves on fire.
On my phone – unread petitions clutter inboxes,
outrage flexes on timelines owned by billionaires
whose ideals I do not share,
an old propaganda poster
turned macro-meme is circulated
of a parent, children sat on lap, at his feet,
asking, impressionably
Daddy, what did you do
when they removed our right to protest?