In this polar stratospheric realm
a cumulus of opinion formed
where fractus ruled and took the helm
wherein a lying contrail wormed.
Now, noctilucent as the day,
Mediocris stratus came.
Nimbus was she. They called her May
bot, strong and stable ‘not to remain’.
See, she cried, how we stand together
deploying funnel vision
against good old British weather!
But Ireland was torn and split by storm.
Scotland was still divisive
and Wales’s hills, mostly worn down,
could still loom dark, decisive.
You can’t be cirrus Europe cried.
You cannot simply wave goodbye.
what port? what wall? And trades aside,
A whale to catch a mackerel sky?
But Mediocris stood her ground,
alto from her flammagenic crest.
Brexit is Brexit! Square is round.
This is my only deal and best.
To humilis she’d never nod,
shaking her frail fists at the clouds.
So politicians meet their god
and rain on us their tattered shrouds.