A Crown for Lockdown: Part Four

12.

Just one more morsel of uncertainty,

Until the call comes, leaving doubt removed.

A message of release that sets us free,

The Covid diagnosis is disproved.

We rush round to the shops to buy some wine

And revel in that novelty: “Outside”.

You phone your parents up to say you’re fine,

Free from a threat you’d felt obliged to hide.

We take our son to cycle round the park.

We chuckle at the rain against our skin.

The future never looked so bright! Come dark,

A sense of anti-climax has kicked in.

The pessimist in me says, “Don’t forget,

It only means we haven’t caught it yet."

13.

It only means we haven’t caught it yet,

Though clearly we’ve been luckier than some,

But time alone can’t take away the threat,

With winter and a second wave to come.

Though lockdowns may be localised these days,

They represent restrictions we still face,

This isn’t over, simply a new phase

And nobody’s convinced by track and trace.

We all anticipate another surge,

While trying not to give in to that dread.

We wait and hope some vaccine will emerge.

But I can’t shake this voice inside my head.

A still small voice, that whispers softly, sighing:

There will be dying. Yes. There will be dying.

14.

There will be dying, yes, there will be dying;

There’s nothing we can say to alter that.

But time, as well, to watch the swallows flying,

To drink a cup of tea, to stroke the cat;

To paint a picture, badly; knit or sew;

To sit and contemplate a river’s bend;

To see where unused public footpaths go;

To find your phone and call a long lost friend;

To learn to bake yourself a loaf of bread;

To mow the lawn; to sniff the morning dew;

To cuddle with your loved one up in bed;

To use the time you have; to make and do.

To listen to the radio and snooze,

As panic-buying pasta hits the news.

Epilogue

I am well aware that I have lifted lines from Joe Orton, Derek Mahon, Alfred Lord Tennyson, William Shakespeare, HG Wells, and probably numerous others I have failed to notice and acknowledge. There is a sound poetic reason for this: they're much much better than me. I refer any readers I have to the following, by the incomparable Kurt Vonnegut…

"The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practising an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."

Kurt Vonnegut, in A Man Without A Country

Incidentally, both the pessimism and the optimism of the crown’s ending proved to be well placed. Myself and my immediate family contracted the virus in January of 2021. We suffered, but apart from one trip to Accident and Emergency (the UK equivalent of ER), to get some NHS-recommended reassurance concerning my asthmatic partner, we managed to get through the illness and the self-quarantine without too much drama. And my dad, mentioned in the tenth sonnet, recently celebrated his 85th birthday; he and my mum are still doing their best to look after one another, and are hoping that the current rollout of vaccinations will mean they can see their grandson again soon.

There will be dying. We all know that. But not just yet.