Back in Deptford, where we used to live,
There is a statue of a Pilgrim,
Forever waiting for his journey, by the
I used to stare at him,
Imagining the hopes of freedom,
Dreams of possibility
That wreathed about his heart.
In truth, this
Just looks stern and perhaps a little worried.
Being English, the pilgrim story
Is one of departure, not arrival,
An end with no beginning,
A tale of prisons, beatings, fear
But also roots pulled up
With soil still sadly clinging.
I think of the ships being
Fitted for the journey,
Amongst the grey streets,
Still tethered to the stone
And steel of
And there, sitting on the steps of taverns
Wrapped in silence, Friends,
Whose new worlds spun within them,
And who were being lead
By an invisible cord
Beyond the vanishing horizon.
Behind me commerce thunders and
The bloodless dreams of wealth
Build new towers over the graves
Of homes and open doors.
Where are we pulled to now?
As ever, God freshens the sea-breeze
And at the same moment
Calls us to stand and die.
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