A Day of English Law.

Fag gaspers lurk at the entrance bin,

security scanned each time they come in.

Detector gate wand alert!

Give up your stuff, aggro-avert.

Pull out that key from inside pocket

beeps repeat, it’s not the wallet,

it’s mi’ grandson’s mini Star Wars rocket!

Shifty serial car-lifter scally,

sporting borrowed Bugs Bunny tie

screws boozed sleep from squinted eyes.

Mithered Dad tries to look calm

hand on shoulder, comforting palm.

Anxious silence paralyses

nerve tinted air in the lift.

Invisible automaton hostess-

 Miss ‘Melancholy’

repeatedly speaks...

‘Going up.’

as the lad with the frown

prepares to go down.

Enter the client crusading Adams...

Dusty, brandy-snap curled,

well-worn wigs.

Black caped,

stern faced,

pin-striped ‘Top Men’,

Plea pleading Eves...

Shiny faced, oily shoed,

pale lipped,

sooty skirted…

Await barrister battle

judged before benched Gods.

Cloaks waft in their wake

as they strut through

twitchy-arsed populus’d reception,

in front of hurried, harassed juniors,

weighed down with piles of files,

full of truths and lies.

Made ready to twist and tarnish

confront and convince

everyman jurors on payee’s behalf.

Badged up Social Worker

and Ms Briefcase, tight bun, flat bum,

emerge cooing from Court Number One.

Tinkle their bosses to crow

about the case just won...

an infant son removed from suspect home

while a heartbroken parent’s mothering

is shrewdly viewed

she’s screwed with a harsh toothcomb.

Accused poor mater crutch-walks out

on sniffling sister’s arm.

Inside the Family Court,

surly, string-pulling spouse

dagger stares at

quivering abused mum.

Dominated doll can’t make black-eyed head

nor blue bruised tail

of a statement about how

her marriage failed.

All she sees...

cemented, part demented

visions, visages...

Peers peering down upturned noses.

Stuck on the stand,

God’s book in hand,

grilled by a malevolent magpie,

she starts to cook and fry,

wishing the time would hurry by...

and swallow her

to an island with her kids...

away from the ‘man’

who closed her lids.

Weekly.

Listed for ten she’s called back at three,

a piece of paper says she’s free.

Out the back under lock and key

Judges’ lush limo’s park buck-shee.

Last gavel hammers down at

half past four,

another day of English Law.

G4 unhappy bus awaits

the downward trenders...

route one

to the palace

of drug Lords and benders.

 

​Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Old Bailey, London by Tbmurray. 2012.