Allies / All Lies Copyright © Rob Lock 2010

You’ll find u s in justice
but justice in the US,
maybe a different story.

Here’s a different story.

One Thursday in Bury, two autumns ago,
prisoners filed into the dock all morning long
to answer charges before three worthy magistrates.

Some accused of thieving, some of violence;
some cocky, some with heads hung low,
some pleading guilty, some denying: Me? Oh no.

They strutted or they ambled in, a very fair cop
at their side, wringing hands, hands in pockets -
their own you understand - all but one group who were trooped

up from the cooped up holding cell - in handcuffs.
Their crime? To break into the airbase rented to
the US of A at Lakenheath. They’d latched themselves to gates

surrounding a munitions area where cluster bombs
were mustered. Illegally. Then they dialled 999.
The service that they wanted: police - a war crime to report.

The bobby on the desk was flustered, said he couldn’t help:
he didn’t have a box for war crimes in his incident report.
But trespassing? He was on home ground there

so he sent some burly lads round to investigate,
and several months, and several cock ups, later
the Lakenheath 8 were hauled up for their first appearance.

And the coppers cuffed them, thought they’d stuffed them,
no doubt enjoyed the irony of ironware on wrists
that had chosen them, had used them, in the furtherance of crime.

A crime much worse than burglary or beating: the crime
of asking questions, of putting conscience on the line,
of serving more than time.