The Migrant. (A Lost Soul in Modern Britain).

I am a migrant.
I come from a foreign place,
A maligned country
Once renowned for fairness and equality,
For intellectual tolerance
And racial harmony,
But now torn apart by factions,
By greedy warlords,
By smart suit racists,
By ignorant fundamentalists,
By rich fools bating the poor.
These are the individuals I now write to.

I am a migrant,
An unwilling frightened traveller
Forever on the move
With nothing in my back pack,
Pockets torn and empty,
Fighting to cross frontiers,
The fiercely guarded barriers
Of self interest and inhumanity,
Of terror and self doubt.

I am a migrant,
But I do not come from Syria,
From Afghanistan,
From Africa,
The once civilised Palmyra.
I have not changed my dwelling
For more that forty years,
I have not been kicked into the highway
Covered in blood and tears.

You cannot handcuff me and fly me home,
Efficiently deport me,
Shove me on a wagon and transport me,
Lock me in a Death Camp,
Cut me down at dawn.
I am a refugee from the time when I was born,
April 27th. 1943,
My place of birth, London,
Then at war with tyranny.

But it seems that you can casually ignore me,
Deride my "Love thy neighbour" eccentricity,
Cut access to free knowledge,
Deny my right to speak.
You can, it seems, defile my old ideals;
Smash up my hope, the humane Welfare State,
Maroon me on the narrow beach of history,
And leave me there to drown.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 3rd. - 4th. 2015.