First, they came for the homeless

on Britain’s streets,

because that’s what they do, pick

at the fringes and the easy targets, the vulnerable

and the uncomfortable on the eye,

and you did nothing,

then they come, excited

by the work already done, the first small ticked box

for the disabled and reduce them down

to figures of ridicule and suspicion,

do they really need to be seen,

salivating now, the painted smiles

of ministers as you tore yourselves apart

to say nothing,

we all had our say on the European question,

but the grinning jackanapes in the village green

held sway, we say a lot but no concrete answer

comes forth, pull out, pull out of this madness,

then they came for the Windrush generation, send ‘em back

they cry in the quiet halls and corridors,

brave on discounted spirits of old,

you say nothing, only the few discerning voices

of reason, of truth putting their heads above the parapets

and taking the sniper’s shots, holding all

with conscious and honour,

we say nothing, we lose our voice over Grenfell,

we shun ourselves and our souls because it is easy

to say nothing, to remain quiet,

the keyboard does nothing, words do nothing

we have become broken, frightened

of where the look of hate will fall next,

and who will speak for you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018