Eight weeks into lockdown
Mark’s at the bedroom window next door,
Shouts to Gina that I’m painting the gate;
“Watch out for that shirt of yours!” he laughs,
“You should leave that to the professionals”.
I smile, beard itching in the heat –
I’ve let it grow; Teams is a good cover,
And my team doesn’t need to see me -
Focussed on the brush, its simple motion.
Finished I cycle to the local shop,
Hunting for flour, eggs and loo rolls.
There’s already an ordered queue,
And I’ve come without a mask.
I watch, shaded by the apple tree -
Forms not yet estranged, but compliant,
Waiting to be moved, called in and out -
And let the wind gently caress me