What will be left of Gaza then but dust
And silent echoes in an empty space?
The war against Hamas, he said, was just
His wily smile the answer on his face
What of the little children, the unborn
The doctors, and the journalists who tried
To save them, and record another dawn?
It is because Hamas, he said, they died
Would not the Jews who perished long ago
In Germany and Poland in the camps
Decry this genocide, the winds that blow
The light out from so many other lamps?
You lie, he said. And then the truth appeared
There was no Gaza when the dust had cleared
© Gail Foster 22nd August 2025
Sonnet
The Pigeon and The Cross
What is a Christian? One who can recite
The Bible, knows the chapter and the verse
Whose reputation and whose robes are white
As clouds in sunlight, or one who can curse
In Latin words? What use is Christian breath
If not to speak for other folk less blessed
Who live in gutters, or who wait for death
In prison cells in darkness unconfessed?
Look see, above the statues and the gold
The pigeon sitting quietly on the cross
Come Francis, follow me back to the fold
Oh Lamb of God, be with them in their loss
And it was done. That was a Christian there
Inside the coffin in St. Peter’s Square
© Gail Foster 26th April 2025
The Seven Bins On Fire Without The Smoke
The Tories though. We watch them in dismay
All shifty liars, some said, others thought
That some were reasonable, if you caught
Them in the light, or on a summer’s day
You’d listen to the things they had to say
At least without becoming overwrought
Or thinking of the wars our fathers fought
Or falling on our creaky knees to pray
What is this shit? The fantasies, the lies
The seven bins on fire without the smoke
The artificial wars against the woke
The desperation and dogwhistle cries
For what? For populism and the cause!
The conference erupts in wild applause
© Gail Foster 4th October 2023
Who Are The British People Anyway?
Who are the British people anyway?
The ones who with Conservatives agree
And only them? Are we allowed to be
The people now? Are we allowed to say
A word against the government today?
Free speech, you say, but not the BBC
It’s not for that you pay the licence fee
To let the lefty woke get in the way
The who? The woke, the liberal elite
The Linekers, the Attenboroughs, you
And every other person in your street
Who disagrees with what the Tories do
Be quiet you, while we turn up the heat
It’s not as if you’re British people too
© Gail Foster 10th March 2023
He Always Was Conservative, Was Fred
He always was Conservative, was Fred 'The one thing they will never take away - Conservative and proud!' he used to say 'And British. British born and British bred' He liked a bit of bunting on the shed And Elgar, bits of which he liked to play Upon his trumpet on Election Day 'To keep away the immigrants' he said When Boris came at first he liked him well But then there was the party thing, and he Was not impressed by that, nor by the smell Of bullshit, Truss's rubbish, his MP - The list went on. He just said 'Fucking Hell!' And died, they said, in front of the TV © Gail Foster 21st October 2022
Blossom
~ A poem for the first of May ~
The first of May today. The maypoles stand
In silence. Ribbons flutter in the breeze
There are no dancing feet but only bees
On empty village greens across the land
I wonder if the old gods understand
That we cannot in ancient ways appease
The lusts of earth, or lie beneath the trees
Or even hold an absent lover’s hand
How beautiful the blossom is. It falls
In showers on the garlic flowers, blows
In snowy clouds across our garden walls
And gathers in the potholes. No-one knows
What happens now. The first of May today
The blossom falls, the blossom flies away
© Gail Foster 1st May 2020
If Greta’s Right
If Greta’s right, then we might have to give
our cars up, and stop flying and perhaps
stop eating meat – why how’s a man to live
without a car as big as other chaps
If Greta’s right (how can she be, she’s just
a girl, and what is more she’s slightly odd)
We’ll have to live on lettuce, and a crust
And shiver, and in winter go unshod
That Greta’s wrong. That’s easier to say
Much easier than looking at ourselves
It’s not as if we’ll live long anyway
Sod Greta. Pile the plastic on the shelves
And light the sky up bright with fossil fuels
The children lie. The scientists are fools.
© Gail Foster 23rd September 2019
Bus Stop Equinox
A sonnet on the subject of the Autumn Equinox,
and being at the bus stop at Avebury
Has Summer gone? Oh God, she was divine
Those crazy kisses, that incessant heat
Last seen by The Red Lion on the street
And off to Swindon on the 49 –
Another bus is coming, so it’s fine
That Autumn makes an old heart skip a beat
Her hazy colours, and her scents as sweet
As blackberries that tumble from the vine
We stand here by the bus stop, and the breeze
Blows chillier than yesterday – we wait
She won’t be long, although she’s sometimes late
(Devizes traffic, everyone agrees)
Less leaves than yesterday – we watch them fall
She has to come from Trowbridge, after all
© Gail Foster 21st September 2019
Quis? Ego
~ on the anointing of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson
So what if it was just a drunken dare
Quis? Ego! Made at Eton long ago
I dub thee Boris of the Golden Hair
Servus, servum, servi, servo, servo
So what if afterwards they went to town
and ordered tiny sparrows stuffed inside
six rare exotic birds and chased it down
with virgins’ tears in mouths so open wide
one could believe designed to fit the poor
in at such times there are no partridges
Amo! Amas! Deus! Deum! and more
Dom Perignon! To Boris! Boris is
The Chosen One! So long ago, the dare
At Eton, or more probably, elsewhere
© Gail Foster 24th July 2019
My Name Is Ruth ~ a Devizes rhyme
You may have heard of me. My name is Ruth
It’s written on the Cross for all to see
I cried on God as witness to the truth
And died, and here inscribed my history
The tales they told of me – they said I lied
Defied my God before I breathed my last
They said they found the money hid inside
My hand when half a century had passed
You will have heard of me. A widow, I
Came all the way from Potterne in the rain
In winter, to the Market Place, to buy
Eternal shame – I only came for grain
All Wiltshire’s heard of me. My name is Ruth
I may have lied. To God be known the truth
gailfromdevizes 