In a watercolour idyll

of Edwardian middle class benevolence

we were shaped.

Imperial duplicity, the implicit medium

disguising facts with fancy dressings

and selective omissions:

“Oh, when I was young…..

the world certainly wasn’t like this…”

It might just as well be a private heaven:

 this pharaohs pampered child,

that Aztec princess,

this spoilt celebrity brat,

Roman senators offspring,

tribal warlord’s hareem,

this kleptocracy, clique, set, class,

presidential coterie with its sycophants

court favourites, advisers and financiers;

the privileged circles adjacent to power;

power - built on gold, paper and digits -

expansive, local or relative

all providing the security and buffer

that allows leisure, adventure, ease, experiment …. and complacency.

 

So we dream away, projecting images

with the short sight of hindsight

 -  the ache of longing

for bubble womb-worlds of safety,

a sense of being wanted and  belonging,

having a predictable tomorrow,

where peaceful, pastoral innocence

 and summery simplicity prevails:

 the sun always shining and bellies full;

complete with thornless roses

apples without worms, frisky lambs

and sweet little flower-fairies.

 

The story of Paradise lost, not yet found.