The images of quiet city streets speak, Of cold and snowy scenes far to bleak, No midwinter wonderland of many sales, No excitedly placed footprints left in trails,
A simple ribbon of ink between two points, Or a brand new idea succinctly made, A line in the sand between two enemies, Stamped into history which won’t fade.
Trapped in a virtual frame Buffering our online game Skype your face time tool Zooming to lockdown rule
Two years connected by a single second,
A uniquely ordinary tick of times clock,
The new dawn after the year of sorrow,
A page turned on the sound of the tock.
The seat belt locked across my braced chest,
Pulling me into the safety of the head rest,
The noise of the impact reverberated around,
Echoing from old CD cases windscreen bound,
No light at the end of the tunnel,
No shining sun in the winter sky,
No famed silver lining on clouds,
No end to the hyped Brexit lie.
Mirror ball with a mosaic view,
A broken reflection of the room,
A spherical vision looking back,
Sending squares into the gloom,
The ivy climbed up the cracked walls,
Loose stone holding on by a branch,
Filthy stained glass punctured through,
Slated roof piled up like an avalanche.
A crack of lightning lit up her contorted old face, As the pain of a thousand years stung like mace, The pits and lines danced across weathered skin, Like an ancient net containing the monster within,
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.