At the End of the Day

“Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true.”

Brilliant John, AT times like this when one feels one is drowning and waving, Turners Red Buoy is painted into the Canvas and One realises in which direction to swim. Against the current at times yet and yet that Red Buoy beckons, the red Buoy is Truth.

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The Slog.



I’ve a dream some nights
where we all go to Heaven –
the world’s put to rights,
and there’s tea before seven.

The kids are still tiny,
as light as a feather
our values are shiny –
we’re all bound together.

There’s no crooked bobbies
or BBC spin,
no junk mail in our lobbeys
to chuck in the bin.

No laws against hate crime
no Guardian lies
no fluffy Remainers
with swivelling eyes.

No one mouths off or swaggers
and banks all have tellers
(but no carpetbaggers
or packaged-bond sellers).

Belgium has nowt
but the chocolate makers.
No man is a tout
(there are no undertakers).


But last night my sleep
brought a mineshaft black vision
of George Orwell sheep
and a world of division –
of Angela Merkels
and Macronic Orders,
with more vicious circles
and no federal borders.

A screen on a pole
bade me stoop…

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