Parbold

A town I picked at random from a train,
Imagining its interwoven lives,
The naked beauty of the burghers' wives,
The kids, the pets, the links that make the chain.

And this is Albion in November rain
Where much Arthurian honour still survives,
Cultured by misfits at the end of drives
Who google through the night to ease their pain.

And what comes now? Wire-taps, CCTV,
Detention without trial have marked the path
Of least resistance. In the aftermath
Of their betrayal by the powers that be
The towns of England lie beneath the black
Cumulus of the pillage of Iraq.