by Ray Miller
The morning after, my wife said she didn't
know anybody who voted Tory,
as if they might be possessed of two heads.
One for public display, one kept hidden,
like the wicked witch in a fairy story,
who every five years produces a hex.
She'd woken to find a transfigured Britain:
its foot-soldiers were travelling northly,
men-at-arms unravelling safety nets.
And yet the borders grew thick as a prison,
circumscribing the poor and the poorly
sleeping unsoundly on corridor beds.
People mostly do just as they're bidden
by the sun, by the stars or by sorcery,
for the public must want what it gets.