Sunak's Sorry, Keir's Ear and the Ghost of John Smith

or,

58 and Not Out

by David Erdos 

Would John Smith be pleased? Yes, of course.
To see the Party in power. Or will his ghost trouble
Breezes across today’s rain and branches
In Abingdon slash College Green? As Westminster,

Having warped adopts a socialist stance to help
Straighten and iron out indendations pressed
Into the public psyche and lost dream
Of a political process in place that represents
Everybody, and governs sagely over the Jerusalem

Blake defined. It could never happen of course.
Each flag unfurled is mere patchwork, as loose stitches
Lease sunlight bleeding through hope’s design.
So what we want now, in having dreams and hope
Tempered is a return to some standard which bests

And crests compromise. Every new Government
Overturns the legacy and template left behind it,
But undoing those stitches despite the flag’s state
Can take time and it is in those intervals that a gap’s
Gain can widen and while now we all rally,

Will we take a deep breath and then rhyme
Relief with belief that things can change truly?
Say, as a Scot, would Smith bridle at the SNP’s
Losses now? He was something of a player,
Astute, but the begetter of Blair in his dying;

So would Smith have been the last Statesman
That I believed him to be, or the cow
Sacrificed so that Blair’s angel face,
Made demonic could start the standard,
Not of deceit, but wrecked vows
Which have damned the decades that have
Doused us all, post Thatcher, who simply made
Stipulations, if not demands on the State
Of play and of place; so what of the Tories now
Amidst rubble? Will they honour the previous

People who helped them once legislate,
From Churchill back to the Pitts whose name
Now becomes the location of where I’d cast Cameron,
And (thank God, at last) Braverman. Not to mention
Rees-Mogg. Slime away your greased goblins! Damn

Them all and God damn them, not for being Tories,
But for still sipping sulphur from the masonic cup,
Or passed pan, of exploited blood, that their
Stolen silver spoons would have stirred into chilli,
Or flambed while breathing the fires down

Into flan. They were bland but blasted by flames
That have raged for aeons as 14 years became endless,
Perhaps what Rishi sought was escape. In ignoring
Advice from his Grandees and supporters.
Was a so-called intelligent man so persuaded

That after the dominoes fell he could scrape
Victory? No. His was a toll and poll to be toppled.
A friend of mine taught him, and while near
The top of his class, no true win came his way,
Especially between May and Truss, and the slashing

Of tax for Akshata, this whipping boy made from women
Is now an Asian Christ soaking sin from what
Has been wrought in the social sphere as religion;
With political priests as abusers fucking fake news
Across spin. And the world we have now has been spun,

So much so that we’re dizzy and can, or so it seems,
Never settle and never attain equipoise. I wouldn’t
Put it past them to try and beg bad Boris back,
If I’m honest, with Nadine Dorries as siren,
Imploring him, both breasts heaving in a burnt

Bikini, sunbed scorched, for big boys.
But ‘first and foremost,’ he said, and said to us all,
He was sorry. And so he should be with a glint
In his eye and sad frown. ‘He had heard the anger.’
Most do. But what is then done to resolve it?

Or do we fan fury, until it hurricanes
And tears down all of our structures, each dream
And therefore, each drama. Can Starmer storm,
Watched by former leaders like Gaitskell, or Atlee
Of course as PM? Or will he just swish through

A panorama of puddles? Can Sir Keir tame
The tempests which today pitter-patted and made
What’s historic, stilled tonic in glory’s gin.
Will the stem of his glass full of gain snap
In twain as the tastes and tangles of complication,

Which are wrought from a broken system now spill?
How keen is Keir’s ear? He said he was listening
About Gaza. After the Anti-semitic slur within Labour,
Which rumours now will he kill? May his legal skill
Lead us all away from the skirmish. After talking

To Macron and Yelensky, will he still stall Palestine?
The ghosts of Smith and Tony Benn glare. Kinnock
Was on hand last night hosting a no longer empty seat.
Clear all cushions. Today, tests are opened in the ongoing
Examination of Time. Jeremy as an Islington independent

Will now sit opposite you in the Commons.
So now, I wonder, on both sides of the river
Will the socialist stream fully flow?
And where will Marxism mix as the tide turns
From the Tories. Will the common cause carry

Swimmers, or will we now surf from sun-kissed waves
Into snow? Farage’s Reform now has seats.
Which means that even glory gains gristle.
By this coming Winter, Trump could nuke us all
From his cell. Sir Keir, as I write, your car is easing
Into King Charles’ Court. Sunshine simmers.

The Socialist stream strains for oceans.
As Laura Kuenssberg and the public breast wait,
To swell. Keir, keep your ear to the ground.
And make our polling cards keys to hope’s chamber.

Make fireworks out of beacons becalming
The beaches once blasted. Your speech must mean
Something. So, make today, torn like others
Be one we can reaffix, and in times to come,
Genuflecting be one we can once again proudly tell.

Sunak left in rain. Starmer stalks sunlight.
The clouds still seem undecided. But then what clouds
Allow once made magic. Some said this landslide
Was loveless, and yet today, there’s elation.
Polish your wand to perfection and may those clouds
bestow modern spells.