A Letter to Nigel
Dear Nigel, your words forge new paths
yet doubt clouds truth from view
I wrestle with the whispers of alarm
so let’s discern the chaos from the calm.
In age-old working men’s clubs, in whisky’s breath,
you keep death close by, but I might as well be
speaking of stories wrapped in cloak and flame.
Journalism we can agree has lost it’s star
it’s faded, tarnished, dwindled far.
The internet is not much better that we know
lies, rumours frankly leave us blind
to what is truly in our lives.
Science is unreliable. On that I will concede.
Every study is flawed in some fundamental deed.
Still for me the echo of conspiracies persist
we’ve been misled, we must sift through the grains
to find what weighs.
Covid’s shadow stretched across the land
the world halted, trembling with its hand
international professionals popped up
with policies all pre-planned.
Moderna’s mRNA, a dance of hope or despair?
Did it instruct? Or simply intertwine
with nature’s art, where chaos meets design?
Seek with heart and mind, dear friend, I implore,
balance dances on a fragile floor.
So much to ponder, a vast array of discovery
I feel compelled to warn of danger
but people only laugh at me.
We navigate with caution—yet with recovery
your words pour forth
a stream of reasoned thought
but in quest of truth we must forget
all that we have ever learnt.
