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Sophie Fenella: A Day in the Life

"I read the news today oh boy." To think

of February 13th 2003, teachers held the door as we

marched out the gate, armed with cardboard placards

we marched to Parliament Square, sat in roads,

smiled cheek at policemen, held hands and ran

as if running could move the earth.

 

I raised my middle finger proudly at Big Ben,

showing off to all my little friends who couldn’t know

everything that really meant. To think I called my Dad,

from Hyde Park Corner’s stage, his heart-clutching laugh

bellowed down the phone.

 

He did the same of course, in May 1968,

dressed in black beret, implementing Marx, sipping tea

with Lennon – that is the coolest story I have ever known.

"And though the news was rather sad," to think

 

this day was one of many, when we strutted out of school,

sang garage anthems, "The English Army had just won the war"

blew kisses at hooded boys, cheered each other on

with tongues that loved the river bank for all its musty smells.

 

I left the crowds of coloured flags, megaphones and all,

I left the rows of policemen shields and walked to Camden Town,

there I sat in some sombre squat, right by the canal

watched the water weep and sigh with all the weight of the sky.

 

"I read the news today oh boy," in front of some television screen

I hugged my knees searching for Joe, or Aaron, or Hayley

waving stop the war at red brick walls. But all I saw

were upset banks, balaclava kids throwing kicks,

the Prime Minister's absent cry.

 

The pavement heaved and cracked like a giant fist

rising from the core of the earth, pushing us all away.

I swore I’d never read the news again

but would record, in my own words, every single day.

Jeremy Corbyn vs Trident nuclear Ships of Shame

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