The News at Ten.

The News at Ten.

It can be cold under the sun

Even cameras and bright lights,

Interpreting truth in high definition

And Technicolour,

With more than a nod to Hollywood

In their choice of family friendly stories,

Fail to disguise the edge of bitterness,

The harsh bite of reality

And spiteful spit of sarcasm

That distorts the silver tongues

Of the free world.

It is we,

The commentators and adjudicators,

Who wear privilege as a right

And sit in judgement, like spectators

At a monumental coliseum.

We talk, drink and eat,

Pontificate in air conditioned studios,

Critique the need to escape,

The very jaws of hell,

For the possibility of a future

For new born children to grow into.

As real life plays on flat screen,

A nation disparately displaced,

Marches together,

On a journey for compassion,

A little piece of heaven,

A shelter, from the maelstrom

They were exposed to

By forces more than elemental.

Disenfranchised

In their own countries,

By enemies that once were friends.

An irony lost on nations built

On the right to choose,

Freedom of movement

And peopled by the refugees of history,

As flight from economic slavery

And colonial oppression

Changed the colour of the globe.

When a sporting arena fits into a living room

Truths can be denied as easily

As switching a channel.

And when the rime of innocent blood,

A precocious fluid,

Barely kept in check

By such flimsy packaging,

Begins to tarnish the complexion

Of our evening,

Taint the sweetest moments

Of mainstream family viewing,

The audience may choose

On which side to butter bread,

And turn their minds to

Scripted versions of reality.

The real thing is not just a drink,

But it can be avoided

As just too full on,

Scarcely believable,

A tiny bit too much to take in

Of an evening.

And so, with the lazy click

Of a newly liberated,

All in one remote,

They turn the picture

And surround sound off.

And go to bed,

Where they hope,

To dream

Of love,

In peace,

Instead.