Sublime is the gap between the ticking of the clock
Omininity of “otherness” breeds, well, word invention
Which joins the lists of hobbies which have now replaced the news.
Fifties roads and empty skies, no weekends, just sameness
It don’t mean a thing if it aint got swing

Unknowingness breeds ennui. Not boredom, not quite
But after six weeks of sunshine and barbies every day
Even the house thinks: why are they always here?
I know of no-one infected; Hardship is to queue
Down at B&Q – is this Russia?

The largest collective act of mankind
Virtue signalling: verisimilitude of pain?
We’re not in Syria, we’re not in Iran and it’s really not too bad
What did you do in the…no, don’t mention the war
Not even a phony war

I shaved my head, I grew my beard, variety being the spice
Of… new normal? No; the soundtrack of a life now changed
Irrevocably. Unless, of course, you’ve gone before your time.
Lost thousands in pay, lost a planned holiday, but also
One of my years’ remaining

She stares at racing’s famous Heath, a portrait of despair
Her oxygen of sport denied: just miles and miles of air
A final fence catastrophe; no rising from the mire
The wheelchair now her thoroughbred, ever the same desire

The surgeon gave her seven years; two decades now passed by
In death the Post recalls her grit: not to be denied
Disabling self-pity and banishing all ill
Fighting for her causes, indomitable will
A largesse keenly felt
From the cards that she’d been dealt

We’ll all cook Masterchef pies
Carry injuries from botched DIYs
Gardens manicured and well-tended
Dogs knackered, bemused but contented
Very contented

We’ve You Tube-recalled every match
Every try, every goal, every catch
I-Playered and Netflixed every drama
Gone on-line for religion - good karma
Sort-of

Spotified the Pistols, The Clash and The Jam
Talked of We-Are as opposed to I-Am
Watched “celebrities” sing from their homes
Inspired, began writing poems
Like this

We’ve tuned in for the updates at five
Prayed for nurses to keep us alive
Popped out to the shop – but then no!
Jump in the car? But nowhere to go
Nowhere

“If you think they fit this description
Call the police, but please keep your distance”
Cop appeals, they’ll need some re-briefing
“Social distance” is what we’ll be keeping
Like forever

We’ll tingle backing out of the drive
Smile in the queue on the M25
And next year – we hope – we’ll reminisce
Of the day when we come out of this

Lined up like village colleens, all waiting for the dance
A nervous last audition, their ballroom of romance
All dressed in scarlet dresses, wearing their Sunday best
Their generation’s finest, the blender’s final test

Grenache, Merlot and Syrah, Cabernets one to four
Waiting on the tasting bench, resplendent in Self-Pour
The winemaker is ready, the arbiter supreme
Nervous giggles, chatter, perhaps perchance to dream

He swirls, he spits, he noses, the PH not quite there
Acidity is lacking, but the perfume fills the air
Lavender, thyme and pepper, the Languedoc garrigue
Bound for the assemblage, will they sadden or intrigue?

Some samples he pulls forward, some he treats with disdain
Some will make the final marriage, others will remain
The wine-stained tasting notebook, the splashes on the tiles
The debris of the tasting room; chin up, maintain your smiles

The Cabernet’s cool and distant, Mourvedre’s in a bit of a mood
The Merlot will pull, it’s certain, the Cinsault will sing and be rude
I lack their front, their bravura, mine’s a subtle sense of style
I need a change of fashion, quiet drinking for a while

Drought and stress I overcame, frost and hail and rain
Treat my soul with gentleness, rejection feeds the pain
Eager, smile and puppy eyes, a dance? why, yes, of course
But after one turn round the floor, a thank-you, no remorse

If the vintage will allow me, I will return once more
An ordinary heartbreak, walk back across the floor
Pick up my coat from the kitchen, stoic, show no pain
Make my way to the chip shop, and a long walk home in the rain

The lamps go out over Europe; when will they burn again?
The New Deaths rise inexorably in Italy and Spain
We leave the office, turn off the lights; stand alone in the dark
Gaze out on Luton’s business zone rather than Saint James’s Park

Soon we’ll learn to spell “furlough”, to self-isolate (so formal!)
Did we sleepwalk into this – JG Ballard meets normal?
Netflix, Fuze and Teams and Zoom, set yourself new goals
Clap the frontline staff at eight, then stockpile toilet rolls

Yet the weather’s kind and spring is here; it feels there’s nothing to fear
Magnified, blown-up, eye-catching - a virus which sounds like a beer
Lockdown will get tiresome, it’ll feel like a phoney war
Masterchef still on the telly, quarantine starting to bore

London Calling reminds us “the wheat is growin' thin”
Blinded like Day of the Triffids by an unseen foe within
Excel’s pop-up wards unnerve, beds laid out in a queue
Sepia-tainted photos: 1918 Spanish flu

Then the figures start to rise - thousands now and more
And, though they’re other people (no black cross on my door),
A feeling of displacement, we’ll meet some sunny day
“We’re all in this together!” doesn’t sound so blasé

How long will England’s hedgerows remain beyond the pale?
How long the pubs stay silent? Denied our pint of ale
The chronicles of history await the final score
A time when over Europe those lamps are lit once more

END