With Love from Lockdown
I think I may grow to love this place
like a groupie with Stockholm Syndrome.
See how the pond thickens with spawn,
how the frogs’ roiling orgy creates
the slow TV of full-stop to comma.
I think the spiders will multiply now
surprised by our sudden stillness
wanting to fill our cleaned corners
with their mysteries.
I think there are underground movements
we have yet to discover
sly mobs waiting to rise
and scooter around our naivety.
I think I will make nettle soup,
catch them young, it will last
for days, coating my cold
redundant tongue.
I think all the dogs are twitching
through anxiety dreams
where they wake up and there’s no-one
to throw their spitty balls.
I think the stars can see us again
or rather, we can see them,
or so we think, long-dead blinks
in the newly night sky.
I think I’ll learn to breathe easy again
step out and part the air like Moses;
one day there will be safe passage.
I think the road markings will be next to go,
that the verges have always known how to creep
blade by blade.
