They come with the slow arithmetic of taking,

with gentleness and care subtracted,

with a price to be paid.

And I am told to be reasonable.

To soften.

To let the kindness go the

way of glaciers—quietly, with polite collapse.

No.

There is a grandchild’s hand in mine,

and the future there cannot be sold.

So, I will be the grit,

the snag, the no! struck like a bone

in the throat of the machine.

I will plant what they cannot monetise:

the flowers of decency,

the perennial green of flourishing.

Listen—what is being unmade

was made by my hands,

by yours,

made in fierce and tender labour,

and what they unmake in a season

we will remake in a generation,

I swear it.

This will be my refusal.

13/6/2026