the news of his demise came suddenly
as I was driving, on business, up the M1
plaudits fountained, in a sugary sorbet
a deluge of unwanted information
fields like bored pensioners passed by
in a procession of indifference
crows pecked at the earth solemnly
at Watford Gap, I pulled over for coffee
without irony, the eulogies
itemised his luxurious hardships
as the flattering tributes continued
oozing, like molasses from a slave ship
his selfless dedication and modesty
and, the guardians of our national fable
courage, honour and loyalty
like toy soldiers, on a baize table
on the A1(M) the traffic melted away
eastwards, a glimmer of sparkling ocean
to the north, the fields shimmered hopefully
hazing, to an emerald horizon
from the Tyne’s spires and boxes of light
and the amber hovels of Darlington
the red prince’s men went off to fight
in each town was a brave battalion
garnished with medals like a Christmas tree
he waved to his men from the balcony
they roared and cheered without irony
they are the subjects of his last colony
as always, one-by-one, he betrayed them
leavers to a man, their wall is red
his gift, the dissolution of their own country
they are bereft, now that the duke is dead
