ASYLUM SEEKERS – Barry Tebb
When Blunkett starts to talk like Enoch Powell,
I think of Harold Wilson’s statue in Huddersfield Station,
We caught striding forward, gripping his pipe in his pocket,
Hair blowing in the wind.
Could we but turn that bronze
To flesh?
I would have asked him to meet the two Asylum-seekers I met in Huddersfield’s main street
And they asked for directions.
“We are Iranian refugees”,
They stammered apologetically.
“Then welcome to this country,” I said as we shook hands, their smiles like the sun.
You must be logged in to post a comment.