Sheets marked with crosses have fell in boxes
and withered windswept in this Autumn June
for no unity has been affected, a rain of Brexit
sweeps over a hurricane of doubt, discord brew.

The hack hags muse, stir over media cauldrons
brewing for answers, quick replies; but no magic
they can muster will rebottle the genie ink
that marked the crosses on the ballots
swirled us into the empty centre of the storm.

Breathless we wait while others call “Attention”
plan their futures behind the scene of our distress
as Jacobite Johnson waits for the rebellion and
Nigel, silent, held the bridle, lest the horses bolt
until Gove knocked him from his horse usurping
his ambition to be the new General, Nigel dropped the rein.

Across the ditch that was England’s primal protection
the victims of hate’s conflicts line up and ponder
when they can breach the rampart of the…