A small crowd, speakers we can hardly hear.
It’s cold. The Morris Men in ribboned gear
are dancing in the rain, beating their sticks
against each other. Somewhere else the fix
is in. We’re shouting slogans, simplified
from more complex ideas. I feel no pride
in that. And then the police lines let us through
Excitedly, we march down Whitehall to
First Downing Street, then Parliament. The cold
is bitter in our bones, but we are told
someone has listened. And the sky’s still grey
as we drift off for tea. In someone’s play
a century from now, we’re eloquent
for victories, but not the ones we meant.