"What bloody man is that?"

Across a stage obscured by fog or smoke
flit fearful shadows, hiding in the gloom.
The mutters of assorted punditry
(each confident they are equipped
to analyse the rumours, read the runes)
are buried by the thunder of the guns.
Enter Macbeth. Hacks through diplomacy
garottes dissent, explodes what’s in his way.

He’s had it up to here with partnership.
The wife got ditched. The younger model learnt
to be invisible behind the scenes.  
The deal with Banquo never stood a chance.
Swap titles, president - prime minister?
Take turns because the rule-book says
two terms the limit? How much simpler, then,
to shred the rule-book, do it on his own.

Out on the heath, the witches speak
Chernobyl babble, they equivocate
the truth that lies behind fake news.
Fair/foul, foul/fair. All one to him.
Macduff’s a rival. Fair enough
but butchering his wife and kids
steps up the ante, makes it clear
this is a different game. There are no rules.

He’s sounding weird. Hang those that talk of fear;
there’s forests moving, neo-Nazi plots.
The victim of a thousand slights
becomes the hero of a fairy tale
he’s twisted from fag ends of history.
He’s gone too far to turn back now.
He will be hated till the end of time
but nobody can tell him what to do.