The Archer with the Bow

a poem by tobias kerins, UK

The Troubles we believe, have long since passed
But now we must ask, how long will this last
Is The Belfast Agreement, The Good Friday Act
Consigned to history, about to be sacked

The border from Dundalk, all the way through Donegal
Was erased from the map, like the Berlin Wall
Peace would prevail, it did finally seem
For the people of Ireland, the ultimate dream

For twenty odd years, disruption was missed
Then Brexit came up, with a contentious list
Trade was an issue, single market to protect
A border where goods, would have to be checked

The UK Parliament, was completely divided
Conservatives and Labour, often collided
The DUP, in confidence and supply
Refused a border, would the Government deny

Rhetoric ramped up, and tempers they rose
Caution it dwindles, and tension it grows
Prime Minister left, in July not May
Her backstop not happening, the new one would say

The EU affirmed, the backstop is here
Come hell or high water, will not disappear
We neither reopen, nor do we discuss
Things took a turn, became dangerous

Tariffs were mentioned, farmers did scare
Exports to Europe, a serious affair
A run on the pound, it had gone down
Uncertainty was, the topical noun

The new Prime Minister, with his shocking blonde hair
With bluster abound, said he did not care
Like an archer armed, with arrow and bow
Deal or no deal, we leave and we go

Opinions had risen, from the Nationalist side
That Ireland it could, become unified
You've had a vote, and now it's our turn
And let us just see, what we will learn

The EU were stubborn, of that there's no doubt
For reputation, they would scream and shout
Their single market, to them was supreme
Would they smile, like the cat with the cream

The UK had, a referendum to obey
They had to listen, to what the people did say
Democracy reigned, it was absolute
But would the Archer, his own foot shoot

After two and a half years, no solution is found
Smoking mirrors, that make no sound
Most things agreed, a cigarette paper between
We may just find out, on Halloween

Give a Little Time
The Maltese Falcon Vol IX
Lance This Boil

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