No light at the end of the tunnel, No shining sun in the winter sky, No famed silver lining on clouds, No end to the hyped Brexit lie.
Mirror ball with a mosaic view, A broken reflection of the room, A spherical vision looking back, Sending squares into the gloom,
The ivy climbed up the cracked walls, Loose stone holding on by a branch, Filthy stained glass punctured through, Slated roof piled up like an avalanche.
A crack of lightning lit up her contorted old face, As the pain of a thousand years stung like mace, The pits and lines danced across weathered skin, Like an ancient net containing the monster within,
Quietly aging in a dark alcove in the study,
The antique bureau patiently stood waiting,
Collecting dust, dirt and woodworm holes,
Its time marked writing slope anticipating.
In England in the most unusual times,
One man stood out among others,
The world was at war with a new enemy,
Affecting everyone’s sisters and brothers.
It quietly flutters towards the damp ground,
Slowly tossing and turning in the air,
Newly revealed colour flashes in the dullness,
Giving the tree its final farewell flare.
The centuries old industrial aged highway, Calved open from the ancient earth, Threaded through Leicestershire’s fields, For the coal fired boats narrow birth,
A shoreline smothered with lime green life,
Under a cloudless ceiling of Ceylon sapphire,
Sails of fresh white sheets tack and turn about,
Pushed forward by the scent of barbecue fire.
There is a feeling that strikes with a bite in the night,
A choking terror of a vice like grip that squeezes tight,
The unescapable claws of the monster inside my brain,
Galloping towards me ready to inflict tonight’s pain,