HOT TOWN, AUTUMN IN THE CITY
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OUR LAND.
By David Owen Morgan
Fetch some water
let the stiff taps run dry against
Forest fires of
family trees long left by
Faded fathers who
gave in and buried their names
All we inherit’s
a new town lit up in flames
This land’s not our land
But we let ourselves in
So we’ll give it an anthem
Buried hatchets
leave no ashes of our flag
Once scarlet cheeks
now sun bruised pink
hung up on mistakes
Come home my princes
it’s all yours to witness
the grit on the gust
We won’t fight or flee
we’ll settle like dust
This land’s not our land
But we let ourselves in
So we’ll give it an anthem
They sang freedom can’t be gifted
I expect I’ve been complicit
in their struggle
for having formed
no idea
This land’s not our land.
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Photos by Ollie Stafford.