THIS BRITAIN .. .

THIS BRITAIN .. .

dragons head

.

I woke one day in that awful season pulling wallpaper from the drabbest wall

I heard the cuckoo in my head, that sound I had come to dread and larks ascending

Descending, on an unmade bed where art lives for arts sake neath a poem of bard Blake

.

I woke in context of a bad dream where monsters cavort and roll pale green eyes

Beneath the wonder of clear, bluish skies, the wolds of March on a winters day

In a land of penicillium cheese and home grown ale where the dance to America set sail

.

There the rocks of nature, sandstone, limestone, granite mountains, plundering streams

Wordsworth said to Byron sell me one of your dreams for a sovereign and a ha’penny

Whoever shouts the loudest up on Bleaklow, carry sphagnum moss for the younger Bronte

.

Hardy quipped mid roseships O’Dorchestor, Grande now bows low to her Manchester

But the loss is not lost on all us holy, from Lindisfarne to St Michaels Mount and Gwent

Who wait in an orderly queue in tower block rain for a ticket that’s money well spent

.

As the wood chip paper falls from the wall, I dream of Deborah, the common people

Those spires and chimneys, Lowry men, street dogs, Cambridge punts and steeples

Its time to wake up now, dress the children, gather the wood, honour the good

.

I caught a circle in the sky, the RAF fly around here above the fens, marshland and the wild sea

Gannets patrol from Argentina, those pirate birds disgorge Arctic terns, geese winter from Siberia

We have seaside entertainers – standup Jimmy Carr, the Proclaimers who never need retainers.

.

History is a Book of Kells, a Magna Carta, a Road to Wigan Pier, the Order of the Garter

Questions on a unique quiz for a Bamber Gascoigne starter and we all saw Gazza cry

Shankley, Stein, Busby had other fish to fry on a Friday night in Bootle with Richard Starkey

.

Such malarkey, tis not a limerick Edward Lear to bring good cheer to people dressed in khaki

Over the sea in a pea green boat rivals not Dante, yet Comedy if that is what you want then

Pull up a chair for Will Hay an’ Georgie Formby, you havin’ a giraffe, your sides will split in two

.

For we own a solid culture out under the stars – Olivier, Rutherford, Sirs Alec Guinness, Richard Burton

of early-day saints, the goons, the salt of the earth, shopkeepers, flat caps, Scots and Irish Dragoons

William Shakespeare on the Village Green, Kinks take banter from Noel and Liam Galacher, Damien’s Blurr

..

Listen O’ “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art” were I to begin again in any other hallowed tone

were I to feast on luncheon vouchers inspired by the Earl of Sandwich, of cucumber, buttered bread and cricket

The ambiguity of reason attested to in season by the likes of Keats, Wordsworth, Benjamin Zephaniah

..

O Britain roll your blood-red carpets down and welcome a history of Queens, Kings and Royal Swans

The history of commerce and monetary exchange, Fleet Street, Bank and Shaftesbury Lane, corgis,

the Hilman Minx and Hawker Hurricane Planes all legends that show disdain for our current inaptitude

..

Stand round Stonehenge or from whence those stones were hued, multitudes Whitman, Pollock imbued

Who left us in the lurch, America bright America born of a virgin bride, taken from Great Britains side

Like the rib of Adams sleep, where pioneers and pilgrims still weep, the pagan circle now complete

..

Barter not the charter of the Mayflower, sweet English rose must once again send her roots down deep

Stand alone in her own sea, build her castles strong as Lancaster and Stirling, Carrickfergus, Caernarfon

We have no more the duty of regret, no one has taken more blame for our Colonial shame disperged of Christian blood

..

Same blood we left in Flanders field or spilt in building civilisations honest moments, we for long enough

Tied to Moses burning bush, laid bare on Isaacs altar, we attest to the democratic oath often more than most

So, this Britain shake your mane, shout your roar, this dragons at the door give him no quarter fight now for son, die for daughter

..

© edenbraytoday01.03.2021

About edenbray

I'm a writer ... I write .. . I’m not sure why I ever stopped, was it 9/11? .. . edenbray is born ugly, wet and covered in blood, mucous and bodily functions ~ the effluence of my short life .. . I am a Writer and Artist since 1966 - I'm an avid Blogger ~ I write lots of poems, written essays, articles, reviews, opinion + comment .. . I have had many poems selected for Anthologies of verse and recently have published many of my poems in 24+ themed booklets ... please ask for details - join the shebang by leaving me a marker with a 'like' or a comment for my ego and encouragement and thanks for listening - I really value your interest ~ edenbray
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