Quarantine by Polly Chapman

Through an early morning yawn I awoke
to the rat a tat tat of tormented finches battling with their reflections,
in the mirrors dotted among the winter naked branches of willow and ash.
My latest jaunt at arting up the garden.
But alas, I was inflicting masochistic tendencies on these territorial little warriors.And just at the base of the winter naked trees, pushing on,
pushing upwards, daffodils, wild garlic, primulas.
A little way down the boreen, grey hooded crows, causing a terrible rumpus.
A building site in the heavens.
Twigs and moss and clay and bailing twine and sheep wool and silage wrap and dried cow dung.
Nesting time in Somer’ s Woods.
Buzzards patrol, and life goes on.
It is quarantine day.

Through an early morning yawn she awoke, to the toll of nothing.
Dawn seeping to day, ache seeping into brittle bones.
Grinding, nagging, skeletal.
She mourns deeply .
The void of warm pulsating toddler flesh, rosy and milk scented.
Mannah for the aged.
Nobody to arouse her sleeping senses or flood her veins with opulence.
Today is quarantine day.
Everything is happening, but nothing is going on.

P. Chapman March 2020

Hello. I am a member of Hollyfort Writers Group. I write for pleasure. Inspired by childhood memories and nature.

1 Comment

  1. Nature is vividly illustrated.
    Nice pathos too

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