An I.E.D has partly done its thing,
Created mayhem, fear,
Caused stampede, crush, herd panicking.
We know the suspect, almost feel bored
By speculation as to his intent,
Spend more time pondering the fraud
That is the station's name, as we lament
The pastoral England which it represents,
A piece of it, still here, a token thing,
Beloved because a token of the past,
Is still acceptable, so long as no one mentions it,
So long as all nostalgia is stamped out,
Subsumed, encased in grey cement,
And now trampled by the terrified horde.
The horde who, oft as not, cheered on the new,
Rejecting history, and all we knew,
In favour of a fresh trajectory,
Not realising the hypocrisy
Involved in seeking to impose their modern world view:
Pretending to equalise and to reject
Judgementalism and the moral code,
Has just the opposite effect,
It sets alight
A twisted will to power, of the bitter few.