In memory of Leonard Moore and the Windrush Generation
They came not as strangers, but as builders of dreams,
Carried by faith across oceans and streams.
From sunlit isles to grey British skies,
They arrived with hope burning deep in their eyes.
The call was clear – come help rebuild.
To heal the broken, to get the buses filled.
To forge the steel, to nurse on our wards,
To work with hands and hearts unawed.
But what met them was not what had been said
Not gratitude, but hate instead.
“No Blacks. No Dogs. No Irish” signs,
Still, they stood tall in spite of the lines.
They were not welcomed – but they stayed.
And in staying, they paved the way.
Our hospitals, transport, and cities stand,
Because of their labour, their strength, their hands.
They brought more than skill, they brought soul.
Music, laughter, rhythm, and role.
Curry goat in corner shops,
Steel pans playing at the Notting Hill stops.
And through it all, they carried grace,
Dignity dancing on every face.
They bore exclusion, system harm,
Yet wrapped this land in warmth and charm.
This poem is for Leonard Moore,
My father, who answered the Empire’s call,
Leaving three small children behind,
Including me at just three and a half weeks old—
To seek a promise he hoped to find.
He gave not just years, but identity,
To help build this modern British city.
He, like so many, sacrificed much.
Love, family, closeness, and touch.
Let Windrush Day be more than reflection,
Let it be a call to real correction.
To honour the past with future deeds,
And uproot injustice at its seeds.
Let the Windrush story live and rise,
In every beat of Caribbean skies.
In every child, now born and free,
Who carries that bold legacy.
Alyson Malach. June 2025