Friday Thirteenth

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.


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