Brexit’s Legacy

Startled by swiftness of the grievous downturn,

he stood looking at his terraced house, once warm,

once welcoming and in his hands were bulging bags,

and his children playing their games on tech screens.

Weary from work he held the bag from the Foodbank,

and felt again the creaking of a body underfed and


prayed the government would not abandon them.


Entering the cold hall, no cooking smells to warm him,

his children already huddled in their coats and blankets,

watching their hour of the tele, all computers traded 

for cash to pay dark electricity for a moments necessity

and his wife gone to hospital  for a long awaited treatment

her beautiful body broken by the corruption of cancer.


Bubbling beans filled the damp smelling house with joy

as the children ran to collect clean plates and cutlery

tummies rumbling with juices racing to collect goodness,

and send it tumbling around their cold wasting bodies,

He set out their meals of bread and beans and craved

his own stomach shrunk by the steely, power grabbers. 


Sitting together  in the dimness of street lamp lit room,

he held her frail hands in his own brick roughened,

and together they calculated what was left while

a smart metre tricked them  and became a liability,

she besought him to eat bread and beans to be able

to continue to have the means to avoid their liquidity.

Feed the Rich and starve the Poor.

He looked into his wallet and then into the face of his children.

Oliver looked out from their faces, thinned and paled by hunger,

Their sad eyes looked at him as they hugged each other for warmth.


His eyes watered and his empty belly grumbled as he opened

the last dull can of beans, cut the crust of curling bread into two 

and watched the food disappear into their mouths, every dry crumb.


Not far away, plates were full with succulent salmon, rare steak, 

beef, chicken  vegetables, fried potatoes and mashed spuds, gravy

and there would be golden custard, pies, cakes, salted chocolate ices.


She scraped the lot of the crumbs from her sons bowl and sucked 

them from the plastic spoon. She would eat tomorrow when the meagre,

mean Universal credit arrived, just the once and search rancid bins to survive.


Not far away, a kitchen door ajar, while out of date food is thrown away,

in the waste; while far away, somewhere they’re having a party at number 10,

half eaten food slipped into the trash, where its taken from the poor to give to the rich.


Two cleanly washed children trying to sleep while hunger gnawed at their vitals,

too tired to cry, but holding onto the hope for tomorrow they’d go to the FoodBank,

bringing home food in plenty to be eked slowly to cover the schoolless free food weeks.


A few miles away lives a rich man who can choose to give them enough or kill

them slowly by starvation.  A rich woman minister who chooses to treat them as 

alien pariahs has people shopping for her and ignores the cries. and has food to spare.


Truth may come, but already the lies hold sway, the government culled the media.

So, how will the hungry children have their voices heard? The starving, weakened

oppressed, hidden from sight, are crying out. Their shouts trumpeted out by Tory press.


Yes, minister, the numbers in poverty are atrocious but we are doing what we can,

We’ve paid the rich and made them very wealthy and wait for it to trickle its way down,

‘It won’t.’ We made that lie up a long time ago. The poor will always be with us but they

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