This is an England
And you are free
Of tyranny – rejoice!
As a hand stretched out
To grasp the tongue
Of the great cracked-iron voice.
Be silent
In your hour of freedom
Be silent, and be glad
Now just lie back
And think of an England
None of us ever had.

You can protest,
They say,
You can’t
But help be there
That day
And turn your back
On an England that
Looked the other way.

It had you not
In mind, in heart
In its grip, perhaps,
Though through it you can fall
Through gaps
In fingers opened wide
As certain structures will collapse
In holes that once were small.

So have your silence,
Hold your tongue
This moment will not
Last for long.
That’s all you have –
(False) memories
Of an England at its best.
Grip that in mind
As in her name
We sell off all the rest.

“Come on, boys”
He says and smiles
“Put on your dancing shoes
We’ll give her a send off
You’ll never forget.”
The silence claps about him
Like irons on his wrist
The feet shuffle in
Awkward steps
That are not dance
They wince.
Knives glint in the open
Words of steel
Words of iron
Unused yet read, poised
To cut the unwary
Who dare to open their honest
Unkind
Truth.
Today is not a day for dancing
Today is a day for veils
And blinds, still drawn at noon
And blinkers.