Wooden Horse


He’s trying to be kind, I think, with his roll call of all points north
Huddersfield;  Heckmondwike; Hebden Bridge
Sat outside the pub, defiant in his shirtsleeves, in January
(Smoking a fag)
He’s trying to say: we’re the same

We’re not the same

He’s trying to call a truce, I think, singing softly and smiling (fag in hand)
Noting the echoes in our voices
Detailing the Venn diagram of our past, the overlaps
He wants us to be friends

But we are natural enemies
Separated at birth by a bloody great mountain range
And a bloody great battle

All I can hear is the clash of swords
Cries of defiance; moans of defeat
I’ve a head full of smoke and pain
And all I can think is I can’t let him win
I won’t let him win
He’s not going to win
Not again

White versus red
Heart versus head
And, to the victor, the spoils

(c) Em Fleming


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