Brexit Sonnet No. 64 – ‘These Buds of May’

So will it be a set-piece play of power,
That brings us back to land of common sense?
Or will a tiny trip at final hour,
Rid us all of Brexit’s foul pretence?
For Windrush, Analytics and the like,
Have cycled by on tandems in their hoards.
We’ve seen the bus-side lies, the tragic spike
Of caring jobs now lost on nursing wards.
The Brexit diesel now fuels our final flight,
To loss and grief for what we had, now died.
And trade deals slip like lovers in the night,
From silken sheets and chastened, homeward stride.
It’ll end with whimper, bang or cross in box,
These Buds of May, these poisoned toxic crops.

©Keith Murphy