Tempus Brexit [poem]

I woke today from intermittent sleep

and asymmetric dreams of golden noise

to find that years of pain had been unleashed

from people who had seen their dreaming dashed;

and overnight a mighty storm of rage

had cast my little island from its stage.

A stunned aroma filled the morning air

as spirits, good and evil, sought their voice:

from some came vicious squalls of blame and hate;

from some bewildered others came regret;

but many simply stared in disbelief,

enveloped by an incoherent grief.

By whom has this Dystopian estate

been foisted on our green and pleasant land?

What manner of malodorous caress

has cast this blinding spell across our gaze?

For how long have we failed to understand

the rancour and division now at hand?

The angry victors – what now is their game?

In glory will they stretch a healing hand;

or will their rage propel yet further bile?

And those defeated – ought the bruising taste

of loss condone appeasement’s bitter twist?

Or is the only option to resist?

The past is lanced, yet open wounds remain.

We have no choice: we must endure the pain.

But let us try to dream of sugared light,

when future recollections of this fight

will see us talk of how we made amends,

of how we learned to live again as friends.

Notes

- Not to go all T S Eliot, but I thought a couple of notes would be a good idea

- Time flies, but where? And when?  Brexit means Brexit.  A storm, a drama - The Tempest.  Tempest, tempus, tempus fugit, tempus brexit.

- If The Tempest, then strict iambic pentameter.  And dreams.

- If The Tempest, then islands and dreams generally - Thomas More's Utopia, Huxley's The Island, Heller's Catch 22, Golding's Lord of the Flies, and so on. Islands are places where we find the best of us, and the worst of us.

- To live on an island is to know one's edges - where they are, where they have always been.  To have an exaggerated sense of those edges, unchanged by wars and conquest.  To have an exaggerated sense of difference.

- Sense of difference, and the senses - sight, sound, touch, taste, smell - and how to make sense of things: pairwise, perhaps? Golden noise?  Maladorous caress? Strange times need strange combinations, new metaphors.

[If there's a photo down here it was added August 2017 as part of blog refresh.  Photo is either mine or is linked to where I found it. Make of either what you will.]