When Blunkett starts to talk like Enoch Powell

I think of Harold Wilson’s statue in Huddersfield Station

Caught striding forward, gripping his pipe in his pocket,

Hair blowing in the wind.

Could we but turn that bronze

To flesh I would have asked him to meet the two

Asylum-seekers I met in Huddersfield’s main street

And asked directions from. “We are Iranian refugees”,

They stammered apologetically. “Then welcome to this country.”

I said as we shook hands, their smiles like the sun.

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