Poetry Random Ramblings

Harvest Time

So here we are. A government that either a) continues to pursue a reckless brinkmanship strategy with regards Brexit or b) actually wants the chaos that a no-deal Brexit would bring.

A government that instead of using existing local expertise to provide a track and trace system, as for example the German government have done, gives £12bn to Serco so that they can screw up yet another public sector contract. If you think this is the first time that they have messed up, then you really aren’t paying attention. And then of course there are all the other ‘intriguing’ non-tender contracts for PPE etc, to companies with less money in the bank and less turnover than my little sideline art & sporting memorabilia business that I run on a part-time basis instead of watching TV.

Oh and then there’s HS2, another £800m and they haven’t even started building it yet. Just destroying ancient woodland and SSSI’s. What a white elephant that will prove to be by the time it has been completed.

But this government doesn’t do mistakes. They don’t admit to getting things wrong, they just blame other people and wait for any storm to pass. Hence the way they have handled the Marcus Rashford campaign. Its’ feckless parents or local councils who are to blame.

But what did anyone expect? Irrespective of your political beliefs, (and this isn’t meant to be an overtly political blog), the signs were clearly there. You could see this attitude in the Cameron government (Lansley NHS reforms, Libya etc), in that of Theresa May, ( red lines and triggering article 50 without proper consultation or planning). But it’s not just the Tories. Iraq anyone?

But for sheer incompetence and brazen opportunism the Johnson government has to be the worst, surely?

No matter how you voted in December, we all get to enjoy the resultant fun and games, so different from the promises of the election campaign. Covid has only highlighted the difference between the two.


A field of corn is a field of promise
in the fiercest heat of summer.
But there always is an after,
always a smouldering of light,
an eye-stinging of ash.

So sup your ale to your imagined past,
wrap yourself cosy in your Blighty-coat myth
It’s more than stubble burning
on the smoke-stained lie of the land,
and like that our dreams are gone.

For always the world is theirs
to choose which promises to break
in an eye-gouging of cash
as Albion sleeps;
as if you thought they did it for you.

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