Is it strange that today I am a rabbit’s twitch 20.4.20
startled by the half moon
that hangs low in the morning sky,
that today I’m ruffled fur along
the spine of a vixen’s prowl on Dark Lane,
or that I’m in the throat of a blackbird’s
alarm call across the Tame valley?
Today I am all these horrors
as skin on my face tightens
into another Wednesday
where all normal days
from yesterday have morphed
into unknown darkness,
where curiosity is a dead theatre,
where shopping is a war zone
in supermarket aisles and cars
have stopped revving.
Today the air is clean.
Today I hear you speak into my mobile.
Today I cannot hold your hand.