“a fine breakfast locked away or
cake and tea in a crowded sea café”
Thoughts percolate,
through the contempt
of familiar rooms.
Isolation’s hide of
brick and slate.
A prison of boredom,
whose tears activate fear.
Empty streets are
measured in silence.
Liminal roads
reckoning ways.
Now demons call us
home in urgent voice.
For time may not
last out the night.
In contagion’s viral
storm, all are alone.
And soil sits under
nails’ crescent moons.
©️ Dai Fry 31st March 2020.
PUBLISHED BY PANGOLIN REVIEW COVID 19 ISSUE