I Will Remember the Time When...

Life halted.

We were locked down.

I didn’t go to work.

I didn’t leave the house.

I compared death tolls between countries.

I listened to repetitive daily briefings.

There was no other news.

I couldn’t get any shopping.

Toilet roll and flour were like gold-dust.

I couldn’t see my lovely sister.

I got creative with random ingredients.

My kids felt utterly lost.

I wanted to do things but lacked motivation.

Nature reclaimed territory.

Bluebells filled my garden.

The weather was annoyingly glorious.

We clapped our hands on a Thursday night.

It felt like Groundhog Day.

I missed my friends.

I yearned for cafes, the library, company and chat.

I didn’t wear make-up.

I lived in my dressing gown.

I wrote things like this because I didn’t know what else to do.

Lockdown Neighbourhood Watch.

He’s cutting the grass again.

It can’t have grown much since yesterday.

Incessant whir of the lawnmower.

My neighbour’s Lockdown OCD.

Another fucking barbeque.

Time to close the windows.

Goodbye, Fresh Air,

I will try again tomorrow.

Gaming teen screaming obscenities

Through paper-thin walls,

As I try to relax

In these “unprecedented times.”

The five thousand grandkids

Arrive to visit their Nan.

The rules don’t apply to them.

What Lockdown?

Someone has a supermarket delivery.

I see the van, and I want to cry.

How did they get that slot?

The bastards.

Every little domestic gripe,

I hear,

Simply because,

I am here.

If this ever happens again,

I’m blasting out Green Day.

Throughout.

Fuck it.

A Family in Lockdown.

My son concentrates

At the whirr of the sewing machine,

Thread making wondrous patterns on fabric.

My daughter paints her trainers,

Acrylics in blue, red and white,

Making something unique.

My youngest daughter giggles,

As she designs and develops online,

Constant calls from magnificent, chatty friends.

I bask in a glory

That my words will be published again,

That I still have something worthwhile to say.

We are a creative team,

Struggling, sometimes, in this lockdown,

But united in our imagination.

It's Been A Year

It’s been a year

Since you left us.

I listen to your funeral songs

On YouTube.

That used to hurt.

Now, it makes me feel better.

Since you left,

The world has gone quite mad.

We are in “unprecedented times,” you see.

We are cooped up

In our house-cages.

We are socially distancing, isolating.

You would hate this shit:

Being told how to wash our hands,

By politicians,

Who clearly don’t know

How to wash their hands,

Because they all have this virus.

I think about how you would rant,

And I laugh.

And cry.

We’re all afraid

Scared of sickness and death.

You were not scared of death.

I am writing again,

Words scribble and spill

All over pages.

Just not the same words

I was writing when you died.

They are locked away,

In a drawer,

My eyes cannot see them.

Not yet.

Apparently, we need to come together

As a country.

But families still hold grudges

And will not speak.

I miss you.

I wish I could have

An hour with you.

We could laugh

At the stupid shit I have done.

You always made me laugh,

Until my belly hurt

And tears would fall down my face.

This world needs chuckles.

And hugs.

This world tries to go on.

This world is so much more shit

Because you’re not in it.

The Little Things I Moan About. (That I now miss.)

Alarm clock.

School mornings.

Why isn’t it Friday yet?

“Where are my shoes?”

“I’ve lost my purse.”

Going to work:

Menial tasks.

Cut, cut, cutting

Jacket Potatoes.

Wipe the table.

Wipe the table.

Wipe the table.

Frantically dashing.

No time for lunch.

Waiting for the 76 bus

In the pissing rain.

No 76 bus.

Oh, fuck.

Noisy children.

Instant headache.

Low blood sugar.

God, I’m tired.

Clock-watching.

Finishing work.

To go home,

Which means more work.

Washing pots.

Making dinner.

Lunch boxes.

Permission slips.

Money for this, and that.

“Have you seen my PE kit?”

Washing machine full

Of school uniform.

Sit down.

Struggling to keep eyes open.

Defiantly watch Netflix

Until the crawl to bed.

Alarm clock.

Repeat.

I can’t promise that I won’t moan about these little things again, once this surreal time is over.

If I do complain, I will remember that I am fortunate to do so.