An Elizabethan era ended – Carolingians again.
Postwar gardens stuffed with produce, chickens scrambling, are lost to
Sterile lawns and
Foxes sup pesticides and stumble onwards.
A rush of wind carries the scent of Elizabethan shame: base notes of greed and
Top notes of callousness form a blend
Perfected over 500 years.
Decolonisation without reparation – or contrition.
Cars are nestling smugly on tarmacked front gardens,
Where alchemic hydrangea and sleazy foxglove hotels once beckoned bees,
Their tiny furry faces alive with the cosmic goodness of heaven’s promises.
On Oxford Street and Hyde Park Corner
A ghost keeps passing on his warning.
Placard man – ‘protein is sin’.
Outdated and absurd spectre,
A memory of a state where
Protest was permitted.
Soon, an old white man will wear stolen diamonds.