Island People

We are island people,

near the water, of the water,

we live with the rain:

there are no wind-dried hams here.

We cure with salt and smoke,

as Merlin made spells with salts and fire.

Our swine are made for roasting,

dripping fat into the flames.

The rain is unpredictable,

we divine its coming in vain,

we compromise,

make-the-best-of-it,

become giddy in the sun.

We are divided people,

Picts and Scots,

Britons and Romans,

Angles and Jutes,

Saxons and Normans,

Roundheads and Cavaliers,

Whigs and Tories,

Leavers and Remainers.

And yet,

we are island people,

with each other, of each other,

we live with the choice,

there are no god-sent laws here.

We talk with cakes and ale,

as others made peace with meat and mead,

all fights make way for feasting,

burning hate out in the flames.