Emily Davison Poem by Martin Ward

Emily Davison

Who can forget
this Suffragette?

At first, nothing sinister:
just hiding in broom cupboards
in the Palace of Westminster.

But her unfortunate fame,
is, of course, being killed
at the Epsom Derby,
by the King's horse.

The headlines read:
'King's Horse Brought Down'.
Emily was a Suffragette
of some renown:
should you oppose
the opinion of those
who sought the vote
for women, then hope
that your letter box
is securely closed,
for a nasty surprise
might well be posted
and a fire arise from it.

From prison cell
in Strangeways
Prison, Manchester,
to family plot
at Saint Mary's
the virgin, Morpeth.
Emily Davison
calls out still,
in life and death.

This phoenix spirit
haunted those
(like Lord Curzon)
who supposed
that half the population
were not pre-disposed
to have the reason
enough to vote.

On Emily's stone reads:
'Deeds, not words'.
A sentiment she
would force-feed
to those who dared
oppose the inevitable.

Perhaps her death
was not the intent:
pinning purple
and green;
the colours
of suffrage
to the king's steed
was, what Emily meant.

But her martyrdom,
falling under
the flying hooves
of Anver,
forced this
back-slapping
nation,
through some
shocking feminine
aggravation,
to search
its conscience
or dip its toe
into the font,
as self-anointing
fount of freedom
and bastion
of equality.