How do you fancy ripping tents up, Angie,

instead of nipping to the corner shop?

Here in the town of Stockport, Lancashire,

when sirens sounded, townsfolk gratefully fled

to shelter under arches stout and strong;

but now, the stench of death pervades the air,

the body politic is now corrupt;

no air raid shelters for the innocents

of Gaza under rubble, three months gone;

death of compassion’s in her vacant stare,

who, from hard times escaped, yet soon forgot;

her silence bought, her conscience is untroubled,

as a grieving son’s manhandled from her gaze,

“I want to show you photos of  my mother”;

but law and order’s jackboot takes him out;

no feminist is she; no dignity

for Palestinian women, who shred tents

to tend to their most basic human needs;

but money’s to be made from misery,

British bombs and planes have greater clout.

Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh, 26th January2024