It’s a heady mix. The squalor
and the grit.
The honour
and the myth.
Proud people beggared,
perhaps unbowed.
A nation thinks
it’s better than what others
think they know.
We’ve kept the war
and lost the plot.
Plato no longer teaches us;
Aristotle’s gone.
We teem
in our imagined sophistication
around detritus of the dead,
with crafted mops and ray-bans
to hide us from the sun.
We cannot look – it burns, of course.
But heat and light remind
of what we’ve lost
and what we’ll never find.
And so we leave.
The heave
continues – pressing to the

Rupert Moreton

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