Dance with the blind, shall we,
at the end of the world? Come, a landing-stage,
a withered tree, the dark lake; what else
do we need? The stage is set, and the oak has shed
her branches. What was penned in the oak? Why,
Sycorax - but she has escaped, in time
for Christmas. Dark November, falling of leaves,
a pleasure-boat on the rippled surface.
Let us think, my love - frozen with memory.
We are not breaking away (we are forging a new future)
We are not risking our children (we are full of bold adventure)
We are not destroying jobs (we are creating opportunities)
We are not post-imperial (we are a New Order)
We are not rife with prejudice (we see the colours of truth)
We are not arms dealers (we are purveyors of freedom)
We are not full of shit (we just enjoy telling lies)
If you have any thoughts on these poems, David Punter
would be pleased to hear them.