by Carole Martin
January 2026
Were you at Greenham in December ‘82?
One of those women in the endless queue
to make nine miles of hug around the base?
Thirty thousand women, holding hands and singing
forty years ago.
The touch of cold hands clasped, a rosy face,
ice in the air, mist in that frightening place
beyond the fence; and women, women everywhere.
Thirty thousand women, holding hands and singing
forty years ago.
The tang of woodsmoke in the evening air,
where mud and bender served for shower and chair;
the fence with teddies, and the blue police.
Thirty thousand women, holding hands and singing
forty years ago,
insisting that the toys of war should cease
and the wild common must regain its lease –
the women sing, the women sing of peace.
