Who knew this river city space
would be our long-term lockdown home,
with all these hours to sit and stare
whilst still aware that others don’t
have time to wipe a sweaty brow,
or tears that won’t stop falling.
We hunker down, adapt our skills,
and look for news that doesn’t come,
as pigeons swoop their grey through town,
so odd with all the people gone;
they miss the pies and chips and things,
the seagulls just keep calling.
We climb the Law to see our strength,
the ceiling’s high, the jackdaws too,
the view has questions, hear it sing,
like ‘what would Michael Marra do?’
We stumble on towards the wise,
the fort is burning, falling.