Suffragette Poem by Kim Moore

And if you saw her hiding in the air ducts of Parliament
it was only to listen to the speeches.

And if she set fire to post boxes and burnt letters,
it was only certain envelopes she put pepper in.

And if she threw a rock or two, at one carriage
or another, they were, at least, wrapped in words:

rebellion against tyrants is obedience to God.
And if, being imprisoned, her and a thousand like her

went on hunger strike, at least no one died -
the Cat and Mouse Act of 1913

sent the starving women out on licence,
and brought them back when they were well again.

And if an angry guard forced a hose inside her cell
and filled it with water, at least she didn't drown.

And if she hid in a cupboard in the House of Commons
the night of the Census it was only to claim it

as her official residence. And if her friends delivered
themselves as human letters to Downing Street,
but were sent back, unopened, at least they made
the news. And, not knowing whether she chose

to die or whether in her dreams, she saw the king's horse
flying through the line, her sash around its neck,

at least we know of the bruised shins of the horse,
of the jockey, ‘haunted by that woman's face.'