Social Mobility
by Patrick Druggan
March is a borderline month
that tells you that the world
has always been this way,
it will never change.
The world is wet and cold,
there is no threshold
to step over into the warmth.
Shadows will be long and thin
the frost lies, like loss
on the pavement
seeping into your marrow.
There has never been a May.
It is all an illusion.
It is above our station.
It is our tradition.
The march is a between land
where the gorse grows,
blood never stops seeping
from daily wounds, beneath grey
skied heathland where kingdoms
were made with fairy tales
and our council house accents.
The only way out
is across the frontier
they say we cannot cross.
A continual march.
