She gave up.
Her ghostly shadow,
flickered faint in May.
Vanished under a political storm.
The downpour of tears was coming.
She held them back as a goat would to it’s lame herd.
God’s sheep will sing to the glory of a God,
while Mrs May cried in the prevailing fog.
Principled, intransigent, flawed.
What will brew after the storm has passed?
Brexit deal beating her weathered face.
Unlike many I feel a tad of empathy
for the stony Mrs May.