The sun, the sky, the houses and clouds.
It’s the same as yesterday, he notes
the same eucalyptus, the same plump bird.
He rules: ‘unless something is changed
this matter cannot be put the vote
and so, the new day must be deferred.’
Normally, it’s a formality.
There’s a quick show of eyebrows
and it goes through, on the nod
ensuring diurnal continuity.
But now this blustering bureaucrat
has spannered daylight for good.
This is absurd, you protest.
The days shape shift in increments.
They are made of the same elements.
Their colours and forms are re-arranged
by the palette of our moods.
They are the same, but different.
‘No, no, no!’ The speaker thunders.
‘I have ruled on this issue.
It’s not new. It has happened before.’
His face is puce. He jabs his finger.
‘May I refer the honourable member
To the year of our lord, 1604!’
Normally it’s a volcano
that with a dense cloud of swirling ash
turns all the clocks back to midnight.
That’s nature, but this time
a pedantic Whitehall official
has gridlocked all of our daylight.
