He’s coming and will give no advance warning
but kick the door down at four in the morning
or whenever it suits him—it’s his country
and be halfway up the stairs before you see him there.
He’ll hit you with a killer smile
and a million grudges bound together in one big fist.
His name will not be Haider (or anything like that)
but something with an altogether more familiar ring to it.
He’s the sort of man who hasn’t read
Mein Kampf just yet. But he’ll be here,
like the old man buying The Racing Post
who growls about ‘invaders‘ or the skinhead
with the petrol bomb whose hour is striking now.