By Claudia Court
Lay out your finest brushes – only pure bristle
will do. You’ll want a steady hand to stroke
those anguished eyebrows onto the canvas,
capture the single tear that slides unbidden
into the corner of his right eye.
And his hands – yesterday’s fists – gripping
the sides of the lectern as he faces
the world’s press outside Number Ten;
you’ll need the palest greys to convey
the tension in those taut knuckles.
Now mix a palette of rose pinks, flushes,
blushes – it’s a sultry day, he’s caught
his wife’s eye, they embrace, a swirl
of warmth in one corner of this bleak
tableau. Keir is coming home.
