I walk
through the grounds of the abbey,
Lost in my
meditations,
With the
burden that I carry,
A banner for
a demonstration.
Tourists swarm
around me,
Some move in
files like ants
Crawling
over history,
Consuming what’s
left behind.
Perhaps they
see the grand buildings,
The cornices,
gargoyles and spires,
But I see
through this feudalist frippery,
To class
power that lurks inside.
I unfurl my
flag of protest
Hoist on a
telescopic pole
There are
slogans and placards around me
Parliament’s close and remote.
We are free
to shout on a pavement
Orators can
urge and rant
But concrete
barriers and armed police,
Keep power
and powerless apart.
London traffic
never falters one second,
It’s always
got somewhere to go,
Solidarity with
strikers,
Shall not
obstruct its flow.
The tourist buses
pass us,
And phones
and cameras click,
A demo is
turned into data,
Impaled on
selfie stick.
We’re all
just part of the spectacle, that the tourists may later replay,
They saw a
real genuine protest, and heard protestors shout,
With flags
and placards and banners,
But what was
it all about?”
