Victorian poem late Wednesday.

This is late but I have been slightly distracted. We are sitting as a nation two thirds in social isolation and one third in lockdown. The precautionary principle is based on fear, fear that there could be damage.

But within the last 24 hours I have had my parents cheerfully say that they are ready for social isolation and will cope, and a good mate whose business worries me talk about his dice the reaper. But both are of Christ, and death is not the end.

The current fools who run the country are driven not by wisdom, but by their fear — of adverse results and/or offending a person with a twitter following.

The Victorians, correctly, would call such cowards.


UNDER the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you ‘grave for me: 5
Here he lies where he long’d to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850–1894

Sadly, this is also a requiem.