Friday, 12 April 2019


Britannia once for 
Empire, then for Europe, God
Did robe: skin for sin.

Displeased, we plot to 
Break its chains of law: “ahead
Are naught but roses!”.

                           Leave Means Leave, we say,
                           Who cares: details don’t matter.            
                          So. Wait. The leaves turn:

It turns out, a dot
Does matter; the clocks tick on.
Leaves begin to fall.

Who was it set up 
This gamble? Infect the root,
Fruit, leaves, trunk, all drop.

Who’ll pay for this? Folk,
Tenements, cabinets, swirl;
Branches, leaves, in storm.
And, though guns appear
On streets, we think, we hope, we’ll 
muddle to the sun.

We plot, hope, fight, with
House divided every way.
Look: Britannia’s nude.

                                                                                                © Prabhu Guptara

Prabhu’s poems have been published since the 1960s. He is included in Debrett’s People of Today.