They waited, sadly, hour after hour,
Doing that quintessential British thing,
Putting up, in line, though tired, hungry,
Never really grumbling,
What were aching legs, stomachs rumbling,
Why give voice when greater forces curb the silly tongue,
And silence is the order of the day?
What use are words, when eyes say all there is to say?
What was drizzle, wind that blew a little cold?
When there was History, both noun and verb,
Before that place sophrosyne so lately manifested,
And there was awe that fit it’s place of old.
Milton’s final line from ‘On his blindness’
Never seemed so apt,
As rapt, they gazed with loving kindness,
To see, ironically, at rest,
An embodiment of that which he detested,
Yet changed now:
Power without power.
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