A Muse

Last week as I negotiated the uneven pebbles and stones on Wicklow beach in my sandals, I saw the surf rise from the sea. A flotilla of floating gulls flew away one by one. Poppins Dog barked at the shore as sprays of white lifted from the waves, broke apart, drifted away on the wind, directionless, leaving the ocean behind, grey, without motion, ripples, nor undercurrent. As if with no lunar pull.

I remembered this yesterday watching the Boris show. Why I don’t know. His mop of hair, maybe, like a sea gull?  He stepped up to the podium, triumphant. Made a speech of hope and glory amid cheers, roars, shouts of protest. Then, as usual, Open Sesame, the door of No Ten admitted him, except, did you notice, Boris also knocked to get in. That amused me.

Which is why I am in two minds about Boris as Prime Minister. It has been truly sad to see the old country torn whipped, wounded on its knees after swallowing the poison dished by Dominic Cummings, now appointed by Boris, to stalk the corridors of British power.

I’m sorry, but Brexit has turned Britain into a performance. But, what is a show without Knaves? Without a simpleton puppet who thinks he can fix everything by waving his sceptre? Like the prince in Shrek One. I hope Boris will precipitate the end, the final scene, the culminating battle. Let’s hope it is more entertaining than Games of Thrones and that Jeremy Corbyn can be the Saviour, though I must admit, John McDonnell is my true hero, my Brave Heart, which, oddly enough, was filmed on the beaches of Wicklow.





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