Monday, June 27, 2016

Toast and tea

The kettle roars its bubbled song,
and I think for the millionth time:
I wish I had a toast rack.
Because that's all we can do for now,
put another round of toast on,
make more tea, and sit in a June-yellow kitchen
with bleary eyes and heavy hearts.
While all the bays and bellows clamour more,
we wish that things were back as they were, just a day before.
We meet up with others who blink in the sun,
shade their eyes and say they can't believe it.
The papers roar too.
That corner-shop-shelf blare, all hard capitals and lies.
We're split right down the middle:
reason on both sides,
but the loudest carrying a torch for their half,
victorious and chanting.
An excuse for all the 'Go home' shouters to emerge,
staggering in the sunlight, barking,
belittling. 
It's ok, they say, because now
we've got it back. Our country:
this is England.
The internet groans with the weight of articles
on what will happen next.
Rates and charts and graphs and opinion.
This wasn't supposed to be how it happened,
or why.
The stay camp draws a heavy sigh.

Friday, June 17, 2016

White bird

I'm watching as a bird wheels against a sky
that bruises dark grey,
ominous and brewing.
The bird is lit bright white from a sun that's about to go in,
a jarring
tick against the gloom.
We woke this morning to another scroll through news stories,
of sadness, death and fear.
What a world we've become.
Where people who love, help, aid,
are punished through a swelling of hate.
It's become expected to find an atrocity flash up
on phones that we blindly stab at,
lurching from one story to the next.
They say hope not hate,
but some mornings it's hard to breathe.
A growing fear sweeps the country.
Innocent people are suddenly the enemy.
Clouds roll in.
We need to encourage togetherness,
safety,
a feeling of optimism.
Otherwise what else have we got?
The bird sweeps in circles,
the sun goes in;
the bird blends into the grey.