Our Second Chance

Our second chance
lives in the top hat of a magician
who works hard to entertain small
children (adults stopped placing faith
in him a long time ago).
The magician produces the whitest of doves
which flutter over the truce we never
struck – and they’re real doves, not
fragile, tortured creatures.
He produces ten colours knotted in scarves
and ten more, and another ten, and he’d go on
forever if they let him.
In the country inside his hat,
a nation of honest things,
without guile, so certain of bringing
sense to a world that no longer makes any,
lives our second chance.
There it is, among rabbits
and fireworks:
my hand once again
in your hand.