Sometimes,  

In this our strange country, 

The wind rushes, 

To welcome you, 

To beckon you to its golden shores. 

You fight the normal ignorance, 

And earn your place, 

With the gold and purple stars above your head. 

And then you notice, 

The flood of St George, 

And the virtuous monoliths, 

To charitable foes, 

And the stars fall around your neck, 

And cut your flesh with their pointed righteousness. 

Then you see the rules, 

Written in invisible ink, 

And the smoke from the pyre of retractable promises. 

More of Amy’s work can be found on her blog - https://dlohere.wordpress.com/