Voiceless whispers yearning to be normal shops staring back at you in thoughtful mood a desperate jogger who can't be informal in case, into his private space you intrude
distrustful of every other single person living in dread that you're going to break the law fearing that conditions are going to worsen like a wave of the sea that daren't land on the shore
gusts of bygone days calmly sweep on by while happiness was left on a razor's edge with a booming stock market and more pie in the sky and promises that could not renew their pledge
in bars and cafès hang painted silhouttes a deserted High Street that was once the fast lane seeing your hopes dashed again as another sun sets but how long before the bridge breaks under the strain?
I went for my morning run up Lincoln High Street and the appropriately named Steep Hill, at the height of the Coronavirus pandemic. At 10.00am on Saturday morning there was just a couple walking their dog! The area was virtually empty.