1066, Hastings
The Normans took hold
Gone were the wooden forts
Up went went the stone fortresses
From Sherwood to Snowdonia
The masters were there to stay
And shackle the island
To the continent of Europe
Almost a millenium later
Brexit tries to break that yoke
And send Albion adrift
Into the mystical mists of Avalon
In a rabid separatist rush
With no deal, no return
Giving the old Normans a turn
In their stony mausoleums
Will the new order concrete jungle
Spread thickly on the landscape
Last as long as its predecessor vestiges
Or simply crumble within a decade or few?
Wait and see might be the byword to go.
Lucette C. Bailliet
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