by Chris Bryant
Not inconvenient blizzards bleak
Or frosts to hoar your cheek.
Not passengers without a flight
Or trains congealed all night.
Not journeys inched down icy hills
Or record nightly chills.
Not politicians rosy-cheeked
With eagerness to please.
Not agonising Liberals
Contorted by real power,
Their Tory friends exasperate
By lenient Kenneth Clarke.
The cynic always love to know
That he was right to doubt.
So he has cause to sneer and pout
And say ‘I told you so’.
Too swiftly, we expect the worst
And barely see the joy at first.
The same is true of Parliament.
Yes, we are tribal, venal, vain,
But decent people, in the main.
These truths need our acknowledgement:
We only briefly strut and fret;
Opponents have their honour yet.
And yet the indices of happiness
For us are as for all:
A present prized,
A partner’s hand,
A friend surprised,
A journey planned,
A niece all smiles,
A thank you note,
A fond recall,
A verse that’s a success.