OUR LITTLE PLOT OF LAND.

It would be hard to say that we’ve grown apart
As you would have to be close to be signed up for that,
And like countries in Europe we clearly are not.
So processing our news will be worse than once thought,
But leaving it allows condensation to start,
And the dawn has already enough listless consorts.
But it’s hard to use the usual adjectives for us,
As drifting does not only apply to snow dust,
But to unwelcome dew on the afternoon grass.
For it appears that our going will go on for some time,
And the allotted newscaster will just have to recline
As our separate directions are above the headlines.

The thoughts of our age are employed without style:
Our beauty and charm are fully armed and allied
For the moment when night and its players arrive.
It would be convenient to rely on the favoured few,
But unfortunately mine have fallen for you
Whilst yours are too vain to be educated by news.
And it’s disturbing to know that our kin have announced
That our story continues against their background,
But what version’s confirmed by their eager renown?
As we’re not on the scene to appreciate it,
And send mails of all kinds from our secret retreat
Whilst reserving the right to yield should they succeed.