Behind the Flag

Faceless horned helmets hold the Island.
‘Give us cash and we will spare you, yelled Olaf.’
‘You having a laugh,’ replied Earl Brynoth.
‘Cross the causeway at low tide to Maldon;
then come swiftly to us, you weedy warriors of war,
for we have bright swords, shield walls of pride.’
‘We will kill for tribute, Viking steel will provide,’
said Olaf. ‘I’ve seen this all before;
your English flashing blades will never arbitrate.’       
Our guards and poor peasants were cut to the ground,     
the swan-like whiteness of the Earl’s head violated     
for ten thousand, tenth century tribute pounds.                                                 
Our coffers plundered by merciless raiders,
the domain today of callous rogue traders.
 
The St George’s cross with upturned red sword
flies from the Mansion House, where the Prime Minister sits
with investment bankers popping champagne cork rewards,
rolled on the City’s rapacious roulettes.
Inside a cloud high room a dealer chats
to a monster bank spinning wheel of screens;
his back is turned on rows of run down council flats.
He preys on company weakness, intervenes,
borrows, sells high, rumours the share price to flatten, 
nails the bear to a hedge fund margin,
buys back the crippled shares, makes half a million,
with one cigar shaped finger nudge of a button.
The flag . . . fit emblem of greed and market runs,
banks of wax flying too close to the sub-prime sun? 

Rage, rage, against invidious invaders.                           
Unite with campaigner Billy Bragg.
Cry not for Engerlund, UKIP, BNP,
humourless lesions who hijack the flag.
Cry for creativity, inclusivity,
outward looking, diverse humanity.

Mike Harwood - Wivenhoe