I sit in the bright kitchen, dishwasher churring,
woolly clouds slowly passing, on a May morning.
A wind is blowing out there, beyond the panes,
beyond the loss of lockdown.
On the table- a blue glass jug full of wild carrot,
a bowl of apples, required vitamins,
rubber gloves and kitchen roll-
necessary reminders of Spring and of precaution.
Near me, the screen divides into nine squares of concentration
nine poets , mute in their writing bubbles.
Pens scraping at the comfort of isolation,
reaching below the page to the pain.