There is a clarity about this morning
sunning in mid September. The type of day
you take for granted in Africa. It’s been rare
in these parts in a washed out
summer of pinged lazy lies.
There is also a perfect stillness
in the air, whilst all around
darkness, something capricious.
You’d be right to ask. We are hurtling
towards something. The blood is up
watching from this distance
the rearrangement of the tawdry
gene pool that fools the chattering classes.
The World King is in the counting house
counting the cost of the gold rolls*;
the Queen is in the parlour reshuffling.
Four minutes away on foot
pigeons do their business
in Parliament Square. Even poor old
Churchill is not left alone.
The search is on. You may well ask:
To find a container to see
what we can’t control. To connect
with what is so we can let go, to hold
the red hot rage against the hollowed out
men and women fully stuffed
*Reference to the wallpaper to refurb Downing Street flat. The 4th footnote of the 208th page of the Cabinet Office’s annual report indicates that this was paid for by a Tory donor something that the pee em denied, saying he had paid for it all along. When the game was up, he quickly paid for the redecoration something allegedly he was hoping to avoid.
© 2021 Copyright Rick Frame