Liz Sent Me A Poem

Friday's march was a joyous carnival event - full of happy people, families,friends and strangers, who were united in their anger and sadness over the activities of one narcissistic man. Liz and I were marching with Jenna, originally from Michigan - 

• We commented on the diversity of issues represented [racism, misogyny, nuclear weapons, global warming, mistreatment of refugees, Islamophobia, imprisonment of asylum seekers, homophobia, separation of children from parents...and more] 
• We marvelled at the erudition of many of the placards  - words like 'venality' and 'dotard', quotes from John Quincy Adams,Santayana, and Martin Luther King. 
• We admired the tenacity of the elderly, the disabled, and the children, who kept marching in the blistering heat. 
• We sang, we cheered, we clapped, we blew whistles [well, I didn't -I'd left mine in my teacher's bag!]

Trump subsequently arrived late to meet the Queen, divulged the content of her private conversation and was rude enough to walk in front of her. She is a 92 year old lady - that is rude behaviour even if she was not the Queen.

I was proud of these two young women beside me who shared my feelings about the arrival of this man on our shores.

Steph couldn't be with us, but supported us on her Facebook page. I thank God for two daughters who care about what happens to other people. Liz sent me Brian Bilston's poem. I shall endeavour to live up to it as I grow older!

AS I GROW OLD I WILL MARCH NOT SHUFFLE

As I grow old
I will not shuffle to the beat
of self-interest
and make that slow retreat
​​​to the right.

I will be a septuagenarian insurrectionist
marching with the kids.

I shall sing ‘La Marseillaise’, whilst brandishing
homemade placards that proclaim
‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING’.

I will be an octogenarian obstructionist,
and build unscalable barricades
from bottles of flat lemonade,
tartan blankets and chicken wire.

I will hurl prejudice upon the brazier’s fire.

I will be a nonagenarian nonconformist,

armed with a ballpoint pen
and a hand that shakes with rage not age
at politicians’ latest crimes,
in strongly-worded letters to The Times.

I will be a centenarian centurion
and allow injustice no admittance.

I will stage longstanding sit-ins.

My mobility scooter and I
will move for no-one.

And when I die
I will be the scattered ashes
that attach themselves to the lashes
and blind the eyes
of racists and fascists.