November verse 4: Midnight Tuesday over there (4 in the afternoon Wednesday here) Two hundred million odd decisions. Aggregate them, that's our fate: a fresh start, maybe some solutions, else the planet on a plate. It's midnight last night where they're voting, now all over bar much shouting, counting, claim and counter claim and – who knows – civil war's the game? Here, next day, the sun is shining, noisy miners bash the air the magpies don't pretend to care, and clouds are mostly silver lining. 'Six million Frenchmen can't be wrong' – whoever said that is a nong.
Apologies to the French. ‘American’s didn’t fit the metre. And now I’ll go and look at the news.
Me fail? I fly! 