When news gets moulded into story
We'll cheer defeat in all its glory.
(Dunkirk was not a victory.)
But both sides now get separate news
It isn't fact, it isn't lies
But story, shaped before our eyes,
To slip into existing views.
For story has a shape, a weight,
That hurtles downhill gathering snow.
It's hard to know what's won or lost.
It might already be too late.
We've lost the thread of what we know.
It will take years to count the cost.
This poem supported by my patrons on Patreon, who are one of the things that makes it worth going on.