Ballad of the Barricades

 “I never said… I see myself as Jupiter.” Emmanuel Macron

The oak is the French national symbol of enduring justice.

A curfew reigns from Jupiter,
   With bolts of powerful fear.
The twisted oaks from whence it came
   Lob branches with a sneer. 

A raven sky and leaden cloud
   Weigh down the streets of light.
Days hesitate to wend their way
   Through alleyways of spite.

A boy shoots up the Rue des Martyrs,
   Helt’ skelters down the Quai.
A boy who is like me and you,
   Her and him and them and they.

I shut my eyes so I can see
   A dream within a dream,
Where peace and harmony reside,
   Inside a whispered scream.

A haze diaphanous and blue
   That glows in every heart,
Its siren call is reaching out,
   To quell the upturned cart.

‘Paree’ intoxicates the mind,
   It flares like rare sapphires,
For those who can afford its charm,
   And might avoid the fires.

Shutters fling open, lovers ache,
    Bewitched they dare to yearn,
But vanity and senseless hate
   Fuel pyres that spread and burn.

The boy consumed with faceless rage,
   Scarf on his teenage face:
The boy perplexed by blah blah blah,
   Submerged in hard sub-bass.                                                                                                                     

A pot-au-feu, a lamb tagine –
   Two tribes are back-to-back.
Simmering souls and hearts akin
 On wrong sides of the track.

 And like a train clack-clacking on
   The crooked tree sprays rain
That knocks the boy right off his feet,
   A wedge against the grain.

 He lies upon the sodden ground,
   And cries “Dégage batards!”.
The batons and black heavy boots –
   Hoist by their own petards.

 Whilst back at home an olive spoon
   Stirs up a balmy stew.
As fragrant steam curls from the stove,
   On rues it’s baiser vous.

The storm blows hot, the storm blows cold,
   The storm it ebbs and flows.
 The combatants are wearying
    Of bloody head and nose.

 I shut my eyes so I can see
   A dream within a dream,
Where peace and harmony reside,
   Inside a whispered scream.

Our boy survives the raging seas,
   The waves of stick and stone,
And dries his soaking clothes upon
   The stove of love and home.

And when frustration detonates
   As those who care had feared,
When the old game is played out,
   When the smoke has cleared.

Who gains, who wins, who takes the prize?
   The garland and the cup?
The bloody spoils of “Told you so”,
   Well done the runners up!

I dreamed a dream within a dream,
   Eyes shut so I could see.
Bring him peace and bring him joy,
   Let him live and let him be.

chris wilson

BIO: Chris Wilson was brought up in Birmingham and was an Executive Producer at BBC Radio 4 and BBC World Service for over 30 years.  He currently works at a vineyard in Ditchling, Sussex.

He’s an accredited mountain leader and a certified forklift truck driver.