And so it came to the day of revealing,
hammers and nails blurring in the heat
of the binding and the sealing,
the mouths of party handlers burning like braziers
on winter streets near factories turned holding centres,
wild dogs climbing every crooked stair of their being,
emergency beacons flashing a collective symbol
for taking back control, the guttering flame
of talent show fol de rol rioting through the
dark days of Instagram. Deal or no deal, the fight
went on, attendants to the elites in hi-viz jackets
assembling under Nelson’s Column,
heading towards Whitehall to storm the ships of state.
Kettled in and bottled up by nightfall,
they shouted to be heard, practised
marching in unison and when that didn’t work,
breaking into a run. They knew what they were
running from but what lay ahead,
that was completely beyond them.
Tim Cumming
from Bollocks to Brexit: Poetry & Microfiction (CivicLeicester, 2019)
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs