Arithmetic at Gate B17

Apologies to Kipling

Arithmetic at Gate B17

A Liminal Britain Poem

By the Poet Laureate (stranded at Dubai Airport during the Missile Alert)

A noble thing, I’m told, it is

To learn for seven years or more

The policies of this and that

In think-tanks thick with seminar.

You study drones and treaties too,

The ethics of strategic calm…

Till missiles scribble on the sky

And someone spills their airport balm.

Three hundred billion pounds a year

On PowerPoint and guided talk

To prove that Britain still projects

A very meaningful sort of hawk.

And after?

Well, ask the Duty Free

Whose gin is now behind sandbags

What comes of all our doctrines

And glossy “Indo-Pacific” tags.

A press release from Whitehall flies:

“Restraint,” it murmurs, “must prevail.”

Meanwhile the boarding gate announces:

“Final call for those in mortal peril.”

The President across the sea

Requests a frigate, two perhaps…

But Britain counts its ships these days

Much like a miser counts his naps.

For once the Prime Minister stands

Politely awkward, firm and slow,

Which I applaud from Terminal Three

While Patriot batteries glow.

No theorem from the Treasury

No spreadsheet from Defence Command

Will turn aside a hypersonic

Or guide a yacht with steady hand.

Strike hard who dares.

Tweet straight who can.

The sums remain what they have been:

A navy costs a fortune now,

But panic comes absurdly cheap.

And here I sit at Gate B17

With poets’ rights and borrowed Wi-Fi,

Approving British caution,yes!

Yet wishing faintly for the Navy.