Quietly aging in a dark alcove in the study, The antique bureau patiently stood waiting, Collecting dust, dirt and woodworm holes, Its time marked writing slope anticipating.
In England in the most unusual times, One man stood out among others, The world was at war with a new enemy, Affecting everyone’s sisters and brothers.
It quietly flutters towards the damp ground, Slowly tossing and turning in the air, Newly revealed colour flashes in the dullness, Giving the tree its final farewell flare.
The centuries old industrial aged highway, Calved open from the ancient earth, Threaded through Leicestershire’s fields, For the coal fired boats narrow birth,
A shoreline smothered with lime green life,
Under a cloudless ceiling of Ceylon sapphire,
Sails of fresh white sheets tack and turn about,
Pushed forward by the scent of barbecue fire.
There is a feeling that strikes with a bite in the night,
A choking terror of a vice like grip that squeezes tight,
The unescapable claws of the monster inside my brain,
Galloping towards me ready to inflict tonight’s pain,
surge of electricity jolting through renewed touch,
Soldered together with the heat of the moment,
Circuits of neural activity reviving after several months,
Caress of skin against skin sparking enjoyment.
Shrill noises booming out from overhead,
From the black shadows flying around,
Carrying on the summer solstice’s winds,
Seemingly amplifying this ancient sound.
The corona virus has brought with it some nasty stuff,
Like queuing outside shops and we’ve all had enough,
Locked up inside with repeats of unwatched TV shows,
The suspicious look when you just blow your itchy nose,
A silent road flanks warping semis aging gracefully, Dispersed between newly detached homes, The ribbon of crumbling tarmac guarded by concrete, Winds unevenly beside the garden gnomes,
