It seems talks with Labour have just fallen through - no doubt on fears of claims of illegitimacy from the right wing press, and the inability of the Lib-Dems to work with the SNP. A pity, because a progressive majority of voters (51%) did not vote to see a Tory government. Hopefully, talks will cease soon, and Clegg will have something tangible to show for all his shilly-shallying and dilly-dallying. This has been the most enthralling and yet frustrating few days of British politics I have ever experienced. And, when he went, Brown left with dignity and tactical guile all at once - his leaving being so much like the best and worst of his time in office.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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