Poetry

John Whitworth: Freedom

Freedom   Think fredome  mair to prys Than all the gold in warld that is   We saw the invaders fires in the valley. Their impious revels borne upon the breezes Stank in our nostrils like their rotting cheeses. At last we had no time to shilly-shally. Their devils’ fires were burning in the valley.   We were the architects of our calamity. We had felt the iron fingers on our collars And paid a strong sufficiency of dollars To co-exist in spurious amity As willing architects of our calamity.   They are come to desecrate our ancient places, They…

Subscribe to get access to all online articles