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Sight is polarized by plastic shade
so colours can pop
in the long sun of October.

Eyes are shaded too
to what may be occurring
in the urbanity below;

ears are equally distanced from Gideon's
voice who will be evangelising
with jarring determinism

austerity for the many
across the air
and upon the screen.

Instead on these hills I hear
church bells tuned to the breeze,
discordant Jay

in the boughs,
the rustle of moist russet
chestnut leaves beneath

my tread as I approach
St Anne’s Well.
Once a fashionable

destination for those
seeking healing,
a fountain for

the towns prosperity
'till Typhoid's roses
appeared upon three patients.

The press rejoiced
in the scandal and sought
to blame the Doctor

whose cold water cures
had been seen to ****,
causing three to be buried.

So bankruptcy ensued,
town declined,
bacteria remained unsought.

Home

Built a safe home for spawning
ideas, children, poetry.
Added, didn’t subtract; multiplied
illusions, marches, chanting;
hauled a brick, a stone, a beam.
Can safe space really be walled off?

The Carolina Wren flew up
fine fluff in its bill        
hopped onto my cabinet
to feather its nest.          
Am I the predator it’s fighting against?
Can it abandon its own young?

I seemed safe in my home
Coronavirus notwithstanding.
Gym at the Y?  I don’t think so.
Swim at Ocean Grove? Are you serious?
Distancing myself and wearing a mask?
Can I just shelter in poems?

The young deer turned its head towards me.
Stationary on the pond’s edge,
it trotted behind a tree
disappeared into greenery,
its home a sliver of woods.
Can safe space long be hidden?

I shrank away behind my mask
friends uninvited to my home;
no trains rides into Philly;
shunned protests in Malvern.
My own safety is paramount:
Can I seal off my home for good?

The bluejay screeched
his red-tailed hawk imitation
to scare off his competitors
from my bounteous feeder.
It worked! He is not who he seems.
Can a home be disrupted at will?

To shout Black Lives Matter would drive away
my family from our weekly Zooms;
would seem to appropriate
400 years of  struggle;
would pop the bubble I’ve created.
Can I compose at home, Black lives denied?

The deadly breakfast sarnies
And a Gavin and Stacey binge
Sitting through a rugby match
And our endless hours of work

I wouldn’t call it romantic
But then again I would
There’s nothing I love better
Than an afternoon with you

Planned trips around the world
And up some local hills
A magical day in Vienna
And second hand books in Malvern

I call myself the luckiest girl
and I do believe I am
Your parents did a good job with you
And to them I’m indebted

You keep me sane when times are tough
Which recently has been a lot
The Christmas presents we shared this year
Are just the start of what’s to come

I love you a lot
I guess you’ll do
You’re my favourite
Don’t ever go