Pray cursing shaved heads find us
or we drown. Dawn a pebble beach,
foil blankets to camera. Blue nitrile hands
slide the white side door. Just eight inside
this van. Too brown for chalk cliff land
but England is safe. How many make a crisis?
In Kentish fields one hundred trucks rehearse
six thousand stuck grid-locked loads
of cold store grub, palleted floor to ceiling.
Cue media battles, ministerial briefings.
Hospitals stocking meds and fridges
less Europeans, sabre rattled, quitting
but Boris blowhards still burning, not building, bridges.