Dark ink flows through trembling hands,
telling of doom in distant lands
with hate as fuel and tyranny it's goal,
the ink seeks to blacken the brightest soul.

The sands of time blow soft through the dunes,
sullied and tarnished in darkened rooms
as eyes so black and hate stained hearts
seek to tear the very world apart.

A hot wind blows across our lands as
we shield our eyes with blistering hands
but the sand is so potent that it slowly erodes
every house and building, path and road.

The ink that flows ever close behind
congealing like blood as it colours our land,
a stain that defies, no matter how hard we try
to cleanse our skin, it simply blisters and dies.

The land is dying, the crops are sick,
we are slowly suffocating on air so thick.
The ink has seeped through our minds, to the core,
straight into our veins and through every pore.

Devouring all we've come to believe,
its aim, to demand, destroy and deceive.
Total control of the lives we once knew,
propaganda so thick that it sticks like glue.

The ink now flows over lock and weir,
spreading its vile and putrid fear
through village and towns across the land,
with nothing and nobody left to defend.

But hush!
There in the distance is a lonesome growl
and another one, protesting the ink, so foul.

More and more the growl can be heard
over valleys and plains as feelings are shared.
Pounding ground beneath marching feet
as the pride is gathering; feel their heat.

The once quiet growl has become a great roar,
rattling windows from shore to shore
as a slumbering giant is roused from its sleep
from down in deep dungeons where they tried to keep.

Nothing can withstand this powerful beast,
not man or mountain or sand from the east.
Roaring loud along the streets and lanes
the lions are awake and marching again.

Pushing back the ink and its hideous odour
revealing green grass and beautiful flowers.
Back up the rivers, over lock and weir,
making their presence felt, people now cheer.

The ink has receded back over the sea's,
never again to spread its foul deeds.

The lions roar from coastal lines,
a wall of pride that will never decline.

Britain is free and is Great once more
as the sunlight glistens on her sandy shores.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 29th May 2014
Revised 2nd May 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

4 Comments Add yours

  1. says:

    Very Nice!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. noelleg44 says:

    Lovely as susal, Darren.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Noelle. Just tidying up my website.. Old poems but still some reasonable stuff here to dust the cobwebs off.

      Liked by 1 person

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