Fin des jours

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Where is the sense in writing
What place for poetry
In such a world? How can I sing
When all that I can see
Is housing built on green-field sites,
The loss of ancient trees
The melting of the arctic ice
The plight of refugees
The poisons in the air we breathe
Corrupt and broken banks
The twin fists of Kim Jong-un’s nukes
And Mr Putin’s tanks.
The breakup of the Union
The rising of the right
The triumph of the braying mob
The vitriol and spite.
The warming of the biosphere
The carnage on the roads
Theresa’s stolen Number Ten
And Donald’s got the codes.
MPs’ conflicts of interest
Misspent election cash
Our open doors now bolted
Our boats reduced to ash.
The shrieking of the tabloids
The shadows growing long
A nationalistic fervour
“My country, right or wrong.”
Disaster in the making
A shocked, divided land
All amity extinguished
No cards left in our hand.
The dark, unknown agendas
The endless stream of lies
All reason now suspended
Too late for compromise.
My pen is blunt, my page is blank
No story left to tell.
The road is all that’s left to me.
The world has gone to hell.

And May is going to start dragging us out of the EU next week. The news came in as I was completing this piece. There are, literally, no words. N.