By Ellis Poole
I’m eighty two and counting and my prospects may be short,
I’ve never had to pay a fine, I’ve never been to court.
My father was a parish priest, my mother was a nurse,
I’ve spent a lifetime teaching – that’s a blessing, and a curse.
I’ve seen the streets of Gaza on the news on my TV –
someone must do something, maybe someone, maybe me.
I’ve signed a few petitions but my patience has been tested –
I think I’ll go to Downing Street – even if I get arrested.
I sit down with my tablet, order orthopaedic socks
and a book of crosswords for the train, in a nice big cardboard box.
I pack my nebuliser and some Deep Heat for my hips,
look out my comfy ankle boots with easy access zips.
I’ll wear some tidy Sunday slacks so I don’t look like harpy
and I need to write a slogan on my box,
I’ll take a Sharpie.
I don’t approve of trespass, wilful damage is a crime,
but not terrorism, is it? What shall I write on mine?
Hey ho, here comes a policeman, I try not to show my fear,
he’s really quite polite to me, he even calls me dear,
he helps me up onto my feet, and waits until I’m ready,
I smile and tell him thank you and nod to show I’m ready.
What would my kindly mother say? And what about my dad?
They taught me right from wrong, they did, so I think that they’d be glad.
I’ve never been in trouble so I don’t know what to do –
when they take me to the station, do you think there’ll be a loo?
My friend just texted, “Maureen, will wonders never cease?
What on earth did you do that for?”
“For peace, my dear, for peace.”
“They might put you in jail, Maureen, and what about your feet?”
“Well, at least I’m not in Palestine, dying in the street.”
I do hope there’ll be a toilet, and then later, my own bed,
and I hope I’ll make a difference for the living and the dead.
