It’s only for Twelve Weeks




Listen, it’s the silence of my childhood —
imposed by the virus from a distant bat,
as I am shielded in my seventies from its touch.

Blackbirds sing louder, sound travel further
they can now hear distant males reply,
whilst we have sunshine to mock our lock-down.

Everything firmly struck from my diary
by line after line, day after day.
Adrift from society for a year’s quarter.

The eager Spring fears no constraint
on the village green the giant white cherry
daily creeps towards its white-out.

Ladybirds gem stalks in quickening growth.
Paired ducks explore the flower beds as
we watch from the windows, and wait.


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