Friday, 27 September 2019

ON THE NIGHT OF THE FIRE

The shameless crime minister after being told his proroguing of Parliament was unlawful now claims that he is with the people against the elite. I have to question exactly what he means by "the people." Would these be the people who went to Eton? Or those lucky enough to study at Oxford? I am incredulous that the product of such privilege can have the audacity to claim he is not of the elite. If he had any honour he would resign. That is the real will of the people.
Like our present political difficulties here is a poem with no ending. I have been working on this for some time. I like the idea of a dream within a dream and have tried to incorporate it into this poem.


On the night of the fire
he had dreamed himself in France,
the endless beach plucked
from some forgotten summer holiday,
his dream child self stood in disbelief
saying: I do not want to grow into you.
It’s too late, he replied, you already have.
Smoke began to smear the cloudless sky,
as the alarm jostled him back into their bed
then out of it again.

Holding his wife’s hand they ran downstairs
and out of the front door.
Flames rose in the darkness,
they would lose all they had worked for.

Later stood by the fire tender,
clutching a red blanket about her,
his wife took on his teenage face
and looked at him with disgust.

He was thankful the fire alarm
jerked him back to the hotel
into the disgruntled shuffle of guests,
across the wet car park to assembly point B
as the board was reset, apologies and thanks given.
He shrugged it all off.



I have been toying with the idea that the protagonist is a morally bankrupt politician but I cannot quite get the ending. I suspect this is because I want to tell rather than show.



In direct contrast to the self serving, venal political elite determined to profit from the nation's distress here is Ryley Walker. Stunning.


Until Next time.

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