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.