From the new sprigs of justice baubles hang:
a glittering mockery.
In the square the people stand and sing.
A Row of tents on the cold concrete pitched:
a useless protest: their ears are stitched.
Churchill stands over, double breasted
sheet metal, leaning on his stick.
The wind curls around as mint.
George Canning stands at the back
his stone cloak billowing black.
The tall iron fence: impassable.
The golden rivulets of parliament
sneer out through the pointed onyx.
To decorate this unreachable place:
the coming of the season
and the end of reason.
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