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