(Unnerved. In a never ending lockdown, in a new reality.)
This is the fourth week, we are in our fourth week now.
Or is it the fifth?
How to tell?
The seagulls march outside, web footed and wet footed in the dew.
Brigades of them, in from the torrid sea.
Column by column they wheel like a military band without brass or pigskin.
In unison they march back and forth now, in between their own ranks now.
All dressed alike.
In and out of the lines they scream at one another, to keep time.
Keep in step.
The sun is up and the dew will be gone soon.
We are in the sixth week and the days weigh heavy on the clocks that we changed in the third week, or maybe it was the fourth week?
Like the dew, can we go now?
All contact is with LED screens.
Everyone I know lives inside an iPad or a lap top.
Inside our digital world we are all digitally getting used to it.
Sanity has flown the coop!
“It’s a Barbie World” where Ken has been replaced by a seabird.
One of them, (the second one I think,) won the Derby once.
It cannot be won twice.
But then comes The Arc, and unlike the covenant, it’s available annually.
But only to the best of the best.
The digital news has it that this is going on and on, ‘til when?
Just, on and on.
The grass does look greener, it surrounds us everywhere.
So I try to look away.
There is no other way.
This is the seventh week, or so.
So can we go now? Please Sir?
The seagulls have gone, the dew has gone.
When is it our turn?
Not a word.