This poem was written 9 years ago but seems to have more resonance now than it did then.

Clash

She limped along Old Trafford road

her helping hand a stick of ash,

two Tesco bags increased her load,

her costume emphasised the clash

 

of cultures on a bright Spring day

when European arms and legs

in ghastly white are on display

by Boots and Claire’s and Next and Greggs.

 

Her jet black burqa stole the eye,

its out-of-placeness seemed acute

to most Caucasian passers by

whilst some thought it brought disrepute.

 

Her face looked tired her eyes so sad,

life seemed to be for her too hard,

as if the burqa made her bad

and she and all her kind were tarred

 

with health and public warning signs

for their extremist Muslim views

and stigmatised in peoples’ minds

like Swastikas and Stars and Jews.