A Poem for Hillsborough
The Bowbelle was a dredger,
thousand tons of slicing steel;
the rusting monster loomed from darkness,
stoic captain at the wheel;
below, a pretty bauble passed,
a stately pleasure boat decreed
on Thames, the sacred river ran
darkly, sunless, blind, no heed.
It cut through them from bow to stern,
through wood, flesh bones that bleed,
in thirty seconds it was sunk,
drowned epitome of greed.
Those loutish wealthy sons of bankers,
yobs and coke-fuelled drunken wankers;
dragging brothers down to darkness,
robbing rolexes from corpses,
pissing champagne on the wailing,
had it coming to them, nailing
every pre-conceived conviction
of their moral dereliction.
The Bowbelle was a dredger,
thousand tons of power and right,
the weight of law and Sun reporters,
establishment and might,
drowning out the voice of victims
they thought would never fight.
Paul Vaughan is a Yorkshire poet whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in I Am Not A Silent Poet, The Curly Mind, Eunoia Review and Sarasvati among others. He also edits a poetry e-zine at https://algebraofowls.com
Advertisements
