Little usherette fix bayonet and head for Ramsgate
you are the first line of defence against marauding Syrians
migrating economically north
instead of battling barrel bombs south.
With your tin hat and floppy vegetation fascinator
you will find them on the beaches,
the greasy spoon café tarmac.
Pitchfork issued and the briefest of briefings received
your nasal passages flare
and zone in on the tell-tale odour
of 1970’s Swimming Baths.
Chlorine scented invaders are often discovered
clinging to Aldi lorries
or ravenously scanning Argos catalogues
in lay-bys on the Broadstairs Road.
For once the bigger picture eludes you
all focus is sharp on the here and now
as the rallying cry of ‘Don’t Panic’ echoes
ancient hop gardens
from the late Watney’s era.
Rain comes early afternoon,
soaking your woolly scarf
before you seek refuge in a shattered bus shelter.
The expected wave of Aleppo social climbers
clutching battered directions
to Queen Street Jobcentre Plus
does not materialise today,
but that doesn’t mean they won’t come tomorrow.
The number 14 bus splashes an oily puddle
over your khaki slacks, war is a dirty business,
heaven knows if the stain will come out.
Meanwhile furtive interlopers whose idea of Middle East
is certainly not Great Yarmouth
wait their moment to elude the butcher, the baker, the popcorn maker,
unaware that we now control our borders
and our old helping hand has bolted the gate.
This newly minted sovereign state will repel any Brentrance
with Empire pride and our defiant chorus of
‘Who do you think you are kidding child jihadi’s?’