What's Become of all the Gold - a poem about Margaret Thatcher

Thatcher Years

It seems an age ago. It is. When I raged
that I was disenfranchised. Worried that
my tiny sons may grow up to new wars
if the MADness of the bombs didn’t
get us first.

But as always the newspaper days are folded up
and thrown away. We do not live in history, though
it is written around us as we move through
a present that isn’t ours to record.
That comes later.

So how can it matter now that she has died?
Old, confused, indifferent to her cocoon in
the kind of luxury that death bed moments
cannot register. The victory, if it was,
was when her own people

stabbed her in the back and she was literally
driven away in that car, red-eyed with disbelief.