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.