At each other's throats since democracy's start,
the left and right two sword-lengths apart,
restrained in pews of shipshape majesty
by Scout's honour, shadow's integrity;
the despatch boxes facing each other down,
ink-flecked, decorationless, dull brown.
Beyond, the wardrobe-like Speaker's chair
where once, it goes, a TV chef and a peer
had sex whilst a ball waged on the terrace,
and there, lofted above all frowsty office,
the public gallery with its transparent view,
a reminder of who is accountable to whom.
Fated to lounge here forever in session,
a fantasy frontbench from the pantheon:
Gladstone, the upright prose, chewing his nails;
Disraeli, the poetry, in velvet coat-tails;
Derby and Rosebery, more noble than able;
Balfour, reclining, his feet up on the table.
Loaded silence under low lamplight, tetchy,
like a card game where the hand is infamy,
keeps honest any entering congregation;
till whispers become chatter, the chamber fills,
and the living replace the ghosts in sitting,
making a din only the call to order quells.
[The Commons]