Train Of Thought

A sunny evening,
outside the Hope and Anchor,
and I was twenty-two.
Swelled with London Pride

looked across the Lea,
where nearly green fields
met marching pylons,
thought "I like this sort of scene".

Now Hugh Masekela hammers
rod on iron in the spotlight,
hammering a South Africa choo
chewing men into the mines.

He remembers all those deaths,
some of those little victories,
and those few men who rose above
it all - many with no names.

Mandela, like a sign of the cross,
stands on top of the hill.
But the fields around are full
of tyres and crosses.

And x marks the spot head
or foot meets ball and shoots
over the line of human dignity.
Or figures with grace on ice,

or dance floor, of course.