The shores are overrun with immigrants, flooding in
on high tide with the boats. False widows
hiding out in banana consignments and crayfish,
bigger than the native species, invading streams
the length and breadth of England. In some counties,
catching non-natives is legal due to the threat
to the indigenous white claws. They hate our laws.
Off the motorway, bodies swing at regular junctures.
Flies dizzy the corpses and beyond, at the horizon,
a distant city glows like an explosion. You drive fast.
Your headlamps, worrying the country lane hedge-bottoms,
riddle hares into the road. You are coming Deep South
to the white folk. Here, their blood-cross flag swears
something gonna happen. Somehow.
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