Friday thirteenth
The date itself a portent
the exit poll even more.
And yet Hope was there
in our attention to nuance,
to the Professor of Polls,
in our racing hearts.
I KNOW it’s hope that kills
but what is there without it?
It’s a black hole of anger
or bleak acceptance,
a desert of despair.
We need hope.
As England hung its flat cap
on getting Brexit done.
We drank deeply on disbelief.
How can this be?
This landslide of leave,
a mystery, a heart rending loss.
And slowly Scotland
showed it’s different hand.
Our scarred lands of decayed industry,
of Highlands cleared of people for profit
spoke in a different voice:
it spoke of choice, of hope.
It’s a confident voice.
Not one with begging bowls
but of rights to be heard.
It’s the voice too loud to be unheard.
It’s the insistent song,
of a land ready for change.
No comments:
Post a Comment