The Cornucopia (poem)

The fear of twenty-nineteen
Could fill a cornucopia
And the stink of smoke and sacrilege
For Nigel’s new dystopia
Is spilling out from Kirribilli’s
Windows: New-Year’s Eve
Has nothing; no potential
For hope in this display of fire
Mingled among
The illegible stars.

But here we are, nonetheless
This red dawn of New Year:
The future menaces forward
Relentlessly unfolding
Like a headless snake at our feet
And we see
Face to face, for the first time,
That this thing; this superstition
Rushing towards us in the black of night
Has come
And we cannot control it
Our disfigured nation
Burning us
Until we are the ones afraid
Lost
Abandoned
Huddled on the boats
Beneath a wrathful red sky.

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