Ellen Wilkinson, 1924
She stares out from the pages of New Dawn
As though the future needs to be out-faced,
Her flaming red-flag tresses to her waist
Among the endless fields of unripe corn.
They christened her Red Ellen, Little Nell,
Miss Perky, Fiery Atom, Little Minx,
As if to say this cold, old world still thinks
All fiery reds are burning brands from hell.
In Jarrow and in Middlesbrough today
The flames of change are embers in the grate,
Cold fires of ash and dust that illustrate
How much we all prefer the colour grey,
Still too distracted by the colour red
To see the fire that’s waiting to be fed.
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