Bottle

It was the day Crimea moved
from history books, studied at school -
though then reduced, that brigade charge,
as too the lady with the lamp -
now power grab, hope global laze,
those empire embers fanned to flame.
Then tragic loaded tragedy,
as west unites, old emphasis
on drawing line despite the bumps,
a common enemy in sight;
but white the ground, so alien
those far beyond the common threat.
For open arms veil cloak within,
where orthodox means what we know;
though rouble lies in rubble, bombed,
see refugees ranked in their turn -
democracy trades melanin.
Change the menu, Chicken Kiev
no longer fits the bill of fair -
theatre clown proved president.
It can’t be feathered, yellow, white,
as front line, martyrs, laying down
their lives, not arms, invasion faced.
These ladies now, wick bottle lamps,
or Molotovs for cocktail hour,
birds humming as full throated, rough.
Whoever thought these Mums would singe,  
but come the hour, they’ll bring to book,
or sacrifice, world upside down.