These Days

We crawl through these days like modern serfs;
Tired; wooden; hopelessly tangled. Our world
Feels unholy, hard and unfair. All of it
A horrible mess. "Sacred" Ireland no longer
- Just scared.

All we can see is a long, hard road ahead. It
Feels as if even the parents don’t know
What it is they should be doing. The cocksure,
Punchdrunk adolescent has crashed and burnt
Most spectacularly.

It feels brutal, sticky and scary. Living in
A fiefdom run by NAMA and the banks.
Even medieval peasants had more leeway
Than some of us do now. No saviour in sight,
- Broken down.

Poor old Nero, always cast as the villain,
Fiddling away as the city blazed and burnt.
He’s growing in my estimation. If you can’t
Put out the fire, finding something fine to do
Seems braver, somehow, now.