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Motionless
The nation stares aghast at the now grim fortress, our icy fastness,
Once warmed by the fantasies of smug and silken sycophants
Where now broken panes admit the icy blasts:
Fresh air, even reality,
Rhymless, terse, the much feared verse
No prettily dripped couplets to oil the ears of princes
No trite anthemic polishing of crowns
Polemic, critique and vitriol,
The loose cannon drawing frowns
Although his work largely leaves me cold
One glasshouse resident will I miss, at roll-call,
The stone thrower in Motion.
