The Demo in Manchester , 2007.

　
The Demo in Manchester.

Harding's and Big Al's,
purveyors of coaches
throughout four decades
of assorted struggles,
peace marches and the
occasional London Pride
had come up trumps again.
The Birkenhead grit
saw that they did.
So that day, the old-timers,
brave straws that had made it
on lunch boxes and sanity
stepped up to the plate,
clambered aboard once more,
for effect, with
home-made billboards
and vacuum flasks.

In orderly fashion
we took our seats.
A murmuring agitation
filled Big Al's maroon coach.
Flasks were unstopped,
sandwiches were unwrapped,
digested.
Newspapers were rustled,
consulted, digested.
Ruminations came from
the backs of heads.
Fulmination came from mine.
Backs swayed collectively
as we zipped along the M62.
Someone had a
Burtonwood toilet joke
and John Usher had his
Rolleiflex.
　
I cried many times that day,
outside, inside,
pride and love stopping my throat;
once as the demo.
surging into Albert Square
roared and a speaker,
a tiny dot on the scaffold stage
cried 'Peace' over and over
again, spitting it into the mike;
once as the dark-leathered
Palestine boys galloped
through Cross Street,
their rippling banners
streaming red, green,
black and white;
once when a girl sang,
a birdsong lifted through the air,
her notes naming sorrow
for the thousand-throng;
once when our driver spun
the wheel of our grey coach,
sent it lurching forward
out of the Square,
the rain falling athwart
steamed windows;
once when three girls under
two frog umbrellas skewed
by the rainlash
raised their arms,
waved, made peace signs to me
when I waved back.

Then, at last, when another pair
in black slacks and burkhas
raised their hands to wave to me,
collapsing in giggles.