The Blandest Rainbow

Warm inside, I’m

cocooned for now

as outside blooms

the blandest rainbow.

A sorry taste

of morning loss,

dismal anthem

played on motley throws,

now fumbling at

a greasy till,

we once were warned

of awful beauty.

But worst of all,

the dreams are dead.

They’re in the grave

with Smith and William.

Red or dead

it seemed to be,

some Sun denied

another rising.

They’re on the march,

those north of us.

With oil in veins

almost a nation.

Down here I fear

the scratchings of  

a four year old

in a straight edged box.

Examine them,

to test their worth.

Now measure them.

Unceasingly.

As yourselves

are judged today.

Be kind to us

in all our beauty.