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By: angus wardlaw

The Poem

We missed the blossom this year.
Replaced instead by an ugly curve.
The bent bow of a merciless nimrod
preying upon our ancients
and slinging arrows without prejudice
towards those who serve.

But still, life went through the motions:
red lights pointlessly flashed.
With their amber and green disciples
following mindlessly behind for absent slaves,
no longer thrashed.

Whilst on the pavement below,
masked raiders scuttled along
with white cubes of panic under their arms
like fools.
Pigeons scattered
before reclaiming their empty streets
Dancing like squaws and braves
as they flouted the new rules.

Drowned birdsong resuscitated once more,
Swimming pleasantly back to our ears.
Father and child reacquainted,
throw bread together to feed their stolen years.

Social distancing; alone together.
Oxymorons are now our guiding light
as we clap like cymbal-banging monkeys
in both thanks and hope that those who are carers,
may take up our fight.

And if, next spring, we see the blossom fall,
what will we have learned?
Will it be business as usual for one and all?
Back to the grindstone.
Families divided once more by wage.
Or will we finally bow down to nature,
In reverence to Her, the ultimate sage?

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