Back in January I wrote a poem which touched on a nightmare which I trusted with the bright and clear skies, and warmth, of June would evaporate. It didn’t, of course.
There is a foolish innocence abroad in the land. I thought back in January that we could all handle it with gentle irony. Now it’s for real – and the irony, still gentle, has a sharper focus. Irony better than anger? I’m not sure!
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A puzzling innocence
at home on English shores
Is it a puzzling innocence, that we should wish
to shake ourselves free of all the sand and salt,
a dog out of the waves,
more than sand and salt –
we would be somewhere else, another beach –
the same waves, the same wrack and kelp,
but the sea would be somehow different,
the tide driven by another moon and
under that new moon we’d trade our goods
beyond our shores unfettered, be more English –
the moon an English moon –
ours would be
a calculated innocence, a glorious future,
an imagination of a past when we rode oceans –
grew rich on other lands – unshackled, the sea
we’d command would stretch no more than
a few miles off our shores, yet we would
still be lords – you say,
it’s bright-eyed innocence
to see only the benign, the old navy afloat,
a few new tugboats on calm and peaceful waters –
but who needs containers in this grand design –
where once we traded pounds we’d trade in pence
and who are you to say, that’s not a better way
zenpolitics.me 