Revolution

No barricade, no blazing street,

Just photocopiers’ steady heat.

A whispered vow in muted chrome,

To pivot from a wasted home.

The red flag folded, neat and small,

Stitched into a conference hall.

Sir Keir adjusts his careful tie,

And measures change by inches high.

No guillotine, sword rising wild,

Just focus groups and polling mild.

The manifesto, softly read,

Where once the storming winter bled.

Yet still the hope, a frugal spark,

In budgets drawn beyond the dark.

A revolution, slow and strange:

To make the ordinary change.