'And still they come – in the hope of last-resort' Photo: Brian Sumner on Unsplash
Wild Olympians
A poem by Ann Banks
And still they come – in impossible inflatables –
The pregnant, the children, men, stubbled
And hollow-eyed with desperation.
Dwarfed by towering tankers, their tiny boats
Pitched and tilted, precipitously, by ferries’ careless wakes.
Retching their wretchedness over dinghies’ sides,
The nauseous swell of uncertainty, foot-felt
Through the boat’s shifting floor, the only protection
Between them and the deep.
And still they come – in the hope of last-resort,
Braced against another rejection,
Under the pitiless media glare, feeding
The indolent and indignant curiosity of
The comfortable at home.
And still they come – The surge of expectation
As the white cliffs loom larger –
The rubble of their war-torn homes,
The relentless trek over miles of grief and sorrow
Pales with the last adrenalin rush their exhaustion permits.
And still they come – these wild Olympians –
Risking all, dogged, determined, undeterred.
Who, in a different context would be feted, cheered,
Honoured for their overcoming – instead
Reviled for their audacity in coming over.
And now the others come, swaggering in blue uniforms,
Bristling with the weapons of privilege,
The Border Force, taking rightful control
Of pregnant women, children, defeated men,
Righteously repelling the invaders of our ungenerous shores.
And more come to fight them off – smugly brandishing
Their hostile environments. Our borders are CLOSED!
Yes! Even against the brave and adventurous, the skilled
The willing and the eager to play their part.
Corralled in sheds, they wait…
And who will take us in, as our Island dinghy
Founders under the burden of its own imagined glory?
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea!
