The Student Revolt

I am an old man,

My arteries harden,

Yet I can hear the trumpet sound afar off.

My face is lined with the failure of minorities

My hand falters on all occasions of decision

For the field is as on Marston Moor

At nightfall July the second 1644

Four thousand dead.

For the day to me is lost, I cannot fight

My friends on principles, I need their hand

In help.

I can remember time when ‘one world’ was a dream

And then a hope,

When frontiers were friendly and foreigners were funny

And not a threat

To my food

To my drink

To my motor car (this purely hypothetical)

To all I have and ideas too.

The canker was in politics that came to save

And stayed to kill,

In prized possessions that came to please

And stayed to drown the tenderlings of kindness and solicitude,

In sex that came to liberate

And forgot that love had made the world go round.

I am an old man,

My arteries harden,

Yet I can hear the trumpet sound

Afar off.