Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Steve Harrison

Flag over the Cracks

Having just swapped shades of a blue sky
With dad, over the phone,
I creep outside the barricade of the front door
Into the open ground of town.

She’s wearing a red top hat
With a skirt so short
It flickers around the curve of her arse.
Smiling wide, she invites the boys
In, with their baseball caps and pockets of change.
She promises to relieve the bulge in their trousers.

We stood there, once.
By the wall, in front of the chemist,
Selling our tales of ‘Winnie’s Innocence’.
Precise in our choice of target audience
On another lonely Saturday.

Now they have their flag
Over the cracks in the pavement,
Their paper filling the space left by them and us
As we try to find a new way of fighting.

I take shelter from their rage in ‘Smith’s’,
Queuing to buy a paper which mixes and matches my view of the world.

Why should I feel a stab of surprise
To find the spite of the Mail selling out before my eyes?
The lip-sticked ladies grunt and groan and turn their sights elsewhere.

Of course, it has clouded over.
Rain threatens in a clichéd way that Shakespeare never tired of.
Those cloudy moods! I attempt to run from the threat of war
But find nowhere to hide.

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