the pilgrims' way
by Fran Lock, with image by Steev Burgess
here in the heat, in my membrane of grief and spleen,
i have watched you, in the seizure of your ceremonies,
angerlund. maudit and sly, and when will you be full
enough of siege and ante? shuffle to tuppenny aggro
in carpet slippers yet again. your mouth is a triangle
flap that will not close, a hardman's nicked achilles.
i have tried to love you. sold my bones for a retching
wage. land of gloomy fortitudes, would boil my
stubborn paddiness for glue. to say i saw the best
minds, run mendicant and gremlin from your shit-
brick schools would be to chew the cud of an old
complaint, perfect the circuit of my loss in long
unlearning loops. what for? you pious women, white
as laboratory mice, albinised by bigotry; goliards
putting the mockers on, floggers of hooky scones,
all chequered cloth, and soft-paste porcelain. you,
of the wastrel rackets: heritage and history. your
england's not a theme-park, is a gift shop: machine-
tooled saints, bent by the weather, acid-etched in
steel, swing from the dinky gibbets of a million key
rings. i have tried to love you. i was walking my love
uphill like a bike at the height of summer. a warp
of steel it hurt to touch, the bars bent in, a wheel
beyond repair. this effortful possessiveness we
feel for broken things, i feel for you, angerlund.
repentance's schlep. brothers carried their
steepening creeds across gorse and whin. women
and men, bearing poverty's narrow demands
from jarrow to london. and we, who've walked
the corners off this coast in coming after. do you
not know us now? you've made of every road,
a wall. i have tried so hard. on an evening ferrous
with pesticide, the scent of resin, thyme. we are
not compressed in prayer, folded up like paper
snakes about to spring. willow herb and pine,
the scarp we scuff our insoles on.
first abundance, then the blight:
status malus, vana salus. we creep along
the spine of the world, like fear. how
chance describes a spiral to the sea. here,
where schools are the ghettos of your doom,
where austerity's diamanté hangs in pendant
tackiness above the arcade car park, still
there is beauty. not yours, with your tannoy
voice, its monologue of tetanus threat. your chalk
default, this coast. monetised and fortified, until
the shrines gape like forecourts. there is kindness
here, but not yours, somnambulists, laying your
cables of petty connection. crepe-hangers, miming
pity with a meme. god is not an englishman, upright
in his martial law. a tweedy mouth, propped open
in a yawning ban, or pursed in plasticky intactness.
god is not corduroy and carvery beef, the sound
of loaded stomachs, snoring on a sunday to omnibus
and supplement and gravy-doze. angerlund, you talk
like daytime television, like you could contradict
the tide. you talk the causeway into flood, like christ
were a stylus finger gouging keep out in the sand.
oh, you peddlers of fences, slender means and private
driveways, national identity. the bridleway, the brae,
the crag, the scrub grass wagging, green and blue.
i dream of saints, like the ghosts of slapstick
piano movers, hefting relics, hid in caves. breath
of heather, pheasant-startle, lichen, sunlight after
rain. i dream omnia sunt communia. a safe harbour,
a hand extended. they were fleeing too. we are
each other. what is a coast? a compromise:
the desert and the sea. a meeting place. shit for
your saxon flags pegged out to make a cordon.
god, not a badge you polish to belonging. spit-
shined faces, officially stamped. not rank or
fealty, tidal bloodlines. the only kingdom is within.
angerlund, i stroke this coast, your
remnant hem, in hope. lose you to a blue
erosion. we are many. we will win.
Fran Lock Ph.D. is a writer, activist, and the author of seven poetry collections and numerous chapbooks. She is an Associate Editor of Culture Matters.