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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
| ...our nerves are wound back to the breaking, ears strained for the ghost of a wrong note. From "Drum Beat: The Eleventh Night", a poem of Northern Ireland (1973) by Rosemary Canavan. Mutiny Our troubles started before Twenty-Twenty but vision became blurred by constant lies; hindsight sees so much more clearly. As drumming of incessant nonsense drowned out voices of reason, seldom reached those who nurtured a conscience. For there was enough blame to shame a nation, enough hatred to hurry the end of our nation as Our Dear Leader bowed to ovations. What went wrong and when we asked ourselves. We got fingers wagging, pointing. We might as well have asked that damn elf on the shelf. Now what will we do. Abandon ship, pink slips in fists, ready to pummel those in our way? Or will we look in the mirror and get a grip and will we stand in lines to cast our vote. ... our nerves ... wound back to the breaking, ears strained for the ghost of a wrong note. KE [177.57] (29.april.2020) |
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