The Green Man

England, their England.

Let none say our,

we’ve sold it by the pound,

not Ezra but sterling:

a silvered note

not tied to a gold standard,

nor a royal one at half-mast

for a year and a day,

as the faerie queen’s successor,

The Second, follows her Greek Puck

to the other side of the sky.

 

What will happen?

The Prince of Saving Whales

will ascend the Britannic throne

transformed by coronation

into a noble, valiant figure

draped in noble causes

of the colour green.

 

And the tattoo-ed men,

the new druids, crazed by fluids

will wrap themselves in flags

with too much blue for their liking

striking poses for the papers

in these Parler games

for Bulldog Britons

believing the sunlit uplands

made real among the wheely bins and litter.

 

For the Major Oak is not their rally-point,

though they see themselves in Lincoln Green

leisure wear and slave-made Adidas trainers

standing up for the common man,

never never being slaves, unless -

but this remains unsaid

outside of dark Wetherspoon corners

with beer for breakfast

and lager for lunch

and drunk for dinner.

 

The Green Man

will take his seasons

as they come,

his tributes as his due:

he watched Romano-Britain

crumble into rubble and rapine.

Engaland, their Engaland!

Let the Pict have his woad,

blue is his colour.

Green is Engaland’s colour:

the colour of envy.