How white does Albion loom o'er Dover Strait.
A white you say endowed us with our hue,
“So we should stem the seeping dark decay
that wants our pale legacy imbued”.
Then why the harsh flight of your warning cries
that wish our cloistered shores a white preserve?
Why shunned reduced to clamour, met with sighs,
and not received with empathy and verve?
Because, denied not by its ancient grave,
a dissenting voice has stilled the strident calls,
and restored our canvas to a former shade;
a black hue freed from its long suffered pall.
His small grin and foreshadowing delight
foretold of tongues that say “keep Britain white”.
Editor's Note: Here is some background info provided by the poet: “The 10,000-year-old skeleton of 'Cheddar Man,' the oldest complete skeleton found in Britain, recently became a bit less mysterious. It was just revealed through DNA analysis that the man recognized as the first modern Brit had a 'dark to black' skin tone.”
Those corpses that in vain adorn your hair,
that briefly sparkle, though locked in glorious death
were plucked with quite a selfish, prideful air
and severed from their sun inducing breathe.
Trapped in an open, public, peered at tomb,
they hanker for their life enriching earth,
while you flit, gaily, playful and immune
to their petal losing, pallid turning, dearth.
Would you deny a flower’s brazen hand
to snip some locks from your well coiffured hair,
and hear it boast of its appearance, grand;
Its conceitedness and frolics could you bear?
Why in our curls, should death be vainly stowed,
when we can watch those blossoms thrive and grow?
Gary likes to unwind in parks at weekends. His poetry takes him to other spheres and realms but again, only at weekends as he needs to get back to his workplace from Monday to Friday. His poem “My Idyll” has been published in the Grand Little Things Journal.