He left pawprints in the corridors.
Attendants followed at a distance, collecting
his droppings and listening for pronouncements.
When they saw his tongue lolling, they knew
he was thirsty, pressing forward with a pail.
Some nights, hectored by matters of the state,
they would hear him roar in his chambers,
beat his paws against the walls and
hanker for the cold, black skies. His speeches
were fabled: beginning with a growl, building
to a pitch of fury across the despatch box.
They set them down in Hansard.
For counsel, he spoke with the kittiwakes
and warblers that settled at his window.
His chancellor was a walrus, who slouched
on the front bench, twitching his whiskers
belching the inflation rate. They were both
on easy terms with the Minister for Fish.
In winter, they’d find him in Parliament Square,
sprawled on his back, a bulbous angel,
snow-flaked with stars. When he died, they cast
him in iron, and left him on the Fourth Plinth,
warning us to choose wisely, remember
ourselves, and risk the ice at our peril.
