The March

The glass towers of London,
their golden statues—
most tantalizing of all—
for the awkwardness of their glare.
At the foot of the Houses of Westminster,
a bronze horseman holds up his sword,
while a ravenous horse
enviously foresees his power—
subjugation and violence.
The march continues, crossing the bridge,
the Palestinian flag engulfing
the towers of glass.
Succulent dishes
avow the guests, bereaved,
as the march signals their end.
An elderly woman marches,
scooping the earth with her walking stick,
flag in hand.
"I greet the soil of the earth,"
She sits on a bench to rest,
savouring the power of her feet.
The march continues,
keffiyehs enervating
the freezing air, the winter rain,
the overcast history,
and the times to come.
The liars are unable to vocalize,
perpetuating only
a cringing noise.
But the horseman holding up his sword
will fall to our feet with a tremor.