Sunday morning. Sky
the colour it does best. I sprawl
here in my easy leather chair,
ankles crossed on its matching
footstool, scrawling this. A tiny
buzz that for once is not my ears:
a bee or wasp my weak eyes can’t
locate; otherwise quiet in this old
house at the end of a long dirt track
bordered by wind-bent trees,
our personal Appian Way
that lacks only crucified rebels,
a world and worlds away
from other versions of isolation,
socially distanced, and glad to be.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 3:03 PM UTC
Sunday morning. Sky
the colour it does best. I sprawl
here in my easy leather chair,
ankles crossed on its matching
footstool, scrawling this. A tiny
buzz that for once is not my ears:
a bee or wasp my weak eyes can’t
locate; otherwise quiet in this old
house at the end of a long dirt track
bordered by wind-bent trees,
our personal Appian Way
that lacks only crucified rebels,
a world and worlds away
from other versions of isolation,
socially distanced, and glad to be.
One of around eighty poems written during Lockdown.
