IAN BELLARD

Beneath It All

 

Inherited blood lines
hold us in decline,
hoist fluttering red lines,
standards to hide behind.
  

Whose is now the thin red line?
Out on the street to stand behind.
Democracy from social media-read lines,
pushes through hackneyed headlines.
 
Bloodshot eyes in a quiet place
stare back from my reflected face.
Red lined eyes hold no surprise
for witnessing yet more demise.
 
Blood flows in all, on both sides
spills on shared earth, our paradise,
red lines trickle down protested pavement cracks,
stain threatened city park grass.
 
Blood boils in issues great and small,
local protests, civil war,
for water, football, badgers or soil,
red lines in sand, or oil.
 
Is it news?
Or was it ever so?
Blood spent on problems without resolve.
When will we draw a line beneath it all?