I think of a freckly, fair haired lad
of fifteen, an Irish Traveller –
from that nomadic, hard grafting culture
spawned by the Great Famine. As he ran
from danger across a playing field
he tripped and was killed by two youths, fellow
Catholics with Irish surnames, one of whom
allegedly said, as he stamped with both feet
on the boy’s head, ‘He’s only a fucking
Gypsy.’ The judge did not consider the crime
racist. (Possibly the manifold
ironies had leached into his judgement
and atrophied it). Though it is no longer
legal to overtly, verbally or
otherwise, attack any Asians, Blacks,
Jews and/or Muslims per se for all Gypsies,
Travellers and/or Roma per se
it seems always to be open season.
They are tidal rivers the rivers of blood,
those prophesied, self fulfilling torrents
of violence, made to seem inevitable
as flash floods, typhoons, so unstoppable:
a metaphor that is flourished – when
political fortunes are at an ebb –
by scoundrels looking to float their boats
whatever the flotsam or the jetsam.
By David Selzer