Brexit Poem by Bernard Kennedy

All is changed. Doubt set and certainty sought
How to be democratic and await resolution.
Were we right were we wrong.
The majority spoke the view prevailing
moulded by opinion. Such is democracy.
Now we wait a leave taking a sundering?
Which then will come, will it be a grim reaper
or a harbinger of joy. Will Sisyphus lead
to Jasons search. A golden fleece or
the wailing of the ship aground.
The furies cry or the sphynx.
Together or ourselves alone.
' Go out into the darkness
and put your hand into the hand of God,
He will be to you better than a light'.
Safer than a known way? Sure?
A resonance.
Was it a whim, or was it a reaction?
And so we have neologised. Simply put- A brexit.
Brittanica has a new word. Verb or noun. Or maybe
just the Aorist tense
We wait. We have ourselves a situation.
In words of Hippolytus to Theramenes
'It's decided, I'm leaving.
I can't go on here in this lovely place'.