In a Dark Place

 

This garden of Albion,

where once thrived reason, tolerance,

is now a dark place,

untended, unloved,

overgrown with poisonous rhetoric,

the bedraggled weeds of resentment

spreading their ancient roots,

snaking in and out of the weak soil,

while dessicated clumps of twisted old vines

threaten to choke the young shoots.

In this garden everything blindly struggles

to reach the gentle afternoon light,

truth is a stump.

Nemesis enters by the rusted gate,

he wears a white hat and in his hands are cruel shears.

Fear has eaten out his heart,

fear has made him hate,

and he has chosen the route of the bumble bee,

fixated by the one fine thing he can see,

the miraculous rose crowning the glossy leafed bush,

the rose everyone loves, a joy to behold.

And no one can stop the hate as he wields the blades,

scattering the petals of all our hopes.

 

June 16, 2016.

 

Note: I wrote this in reaction to the murder of Jo Cox MP on June 16th, but after the Referendum vote, it seems to have taken on a further doom-laden resonance. Britain is in danger of becoming a divided nation where right wing extremist views will be allowed to flourish without check.

 

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In a Dark Place

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