(after Norman MacCaig, on the eve of another Brexit vote)
Tomorrow Parliament, who are a crow,
Will sit, each in their own centre
Above their bloodied lamb, and blow
Tuneless through an old kazoo,
While wind’s quiet canned laughter
And fade-out of gramophone crackle
Will shake the solitary heath-tree
Where our own ragged self sits.
Crows, who are in Parliament, hollow
Is thy tune, thick-feathered thy crown,
Cape-winged thy shoulder blades, abstruse
Thy ways and means of representing us
Who are you, crows, in our single tree,
Shaking as our one breath blows.