The Summit

The high-vaulted ceiling
İf intricate rafters
Make  it look like a church -
The same  air of awed silences
Interspersed with a cough
Or rustle of paper sheaves
Enhance  the likeness -
But pan  the eye down to
Where  the room  bows out
In a wide self-satisfied convex
Of cream, a  sleek circle of brown
Mahogany  gleams  in its
Sombre  face of red and pink
Abstracts, reflects the lives of the
Short-lived
Sweetness of flowers.

Pan back  up to
The  bland-eyed occupants,
Symmetrically seated ail
Pasty-faced and swathed  in
Black pinstripe;
An  interjection of slim
Red  or pink protruding
As  tie-lines nestle in
Folded  lapels;
The  smell of cashmere and
Silk abounds as

A  solitary speaker
Stands  and drones.
Hush  descends as if
Choirs  were psyching themselves
Up  to burst forth a vocal
Chord  of reverend sound

But  the print on the
Page  is far more
Matter-of-fact  -
A  different kind of
Black and white is
Terribly decisive
And   the nodding donkeys
Agree:
Hear  hear, we'll all go in -
But  you first of course,
Britain

And  a million lives
Consigned beneath
A  sea of couture and
Complacency  -
A  million guns spurt blood
A  week from Tuesday; its
Been agreed.

Discreet smiles greet
The  world's cameras
Clustered on the Dome steps.
Even the  sun smiles down
Convivial and correct.

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