The Battle of Lewisham was a tawdry affair.
For the greater good of national hate, we marched
From New Cross Gate to Deptford Bridge,
A mile behind fomenting bands of foaming skins
And memento mori Schutzstaffel. Safe to some degree,
For a family outing, my hand in my father’s victory fist,
The first and last time we ever walked like this;
Snug as a stone in an eagle’s grip.
We brought up the rearguard between us.
Tales trickled down the gutter; they talked of teargas
And smoke bombs and breezeblocks from the barricades,
Black men with bricks on the parapets of the precincts.
Bottles reeled portentously in the half-deserted street.
At some distance, the sirens heiled, ‘Go home, go home,’
But we were the ones who left. After school on Monday,
I went to Anthony Brenchley’s home and told them over tea,
About our adventures on Lewisham High Street.
They ate in silence, eyes elsewhere;
The enemy at their kitchen table.
For the greater good of national hate, we marched
From New Cross Gate to Deptford Bridge,
A mile behind fomenting bands of foaming skins
And memento mori Schutzstaffel. Safe to some degree,
For a family outing, my hand in my father’s victory fist,
The first and last time we ever walked like this;
Snug as a stone in an eagle’s grip.
We brought up the rearguard between us.
Tales trickled down the gutter; they talked of teargas
And smoke bombs and breezeblocks from the barricades,
Black men with bricks on the parapets of the precincts.
Bottles reeled portentously in the half-deserted street.
At some distance, the sirens heiled, ‘Go home, go home,’
But we were the ones who left. After school on Monday,
I went to Anthony Brenchley’s home and told them over tea,
About our adventures on Lewisham High Street.
They ate in silence, eyes elsewhere;
The enemy at their kitchen table.