Thursday, 18 December 2014

The Morning After (ii)… Britain, 19th September, 2014.

Nothing changed a bit, no hordes awoke,
The claymore wasn’t reached for, after all
The highlands still were cloudy and rain soaked
The city’s traffic at its standard crawl

The tartan slippers felt the same about
The feet of forty million sleepy souls
Who, trundling downstairs, flicked on the box
To check on what they knew, and last night’s goals.

In Glasgow, midnight oil and dad’s best scotch
Burned rather sorely in the throat, but though
Acid reflux almost made the odd man spew
Most kept their cool and drifted sadly home

Dunbarton shook its head and got its way
An exercise in risk aversion felt
Incongruous for clans men in face paint
But fitted, so it seems, more sober celts.

And oilmen in their Aberdeen hotels
Ordered English breakfasts and agreed
Their stocks looked better in the new old light
Then stirred an extra sugar in their teas

In Bullingdon and Eton, only nods,
For greeting something proper needs no fuss
And though there’s not so many in ‘the club’
They’re pleased to call Wee Jocky “one of us”.

The promises on promises went on
Safe in the reassuring, morning after glow
That nothing needed signing or sealing so
Just where’s the harm in tossing off some hope?

And though the web of mutual interest shook
It held so that the spiders could regroup
To spin their many lines, to feed the press
That fill the column inches for the troop

Of ‘Britons’ at their papers, library quiet
Who read with coy relief, we were still whole
Then set to work churning the milk
For the cats at their creamy supper bowl.


(C) Gary Smillie

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