An Irish Summer lockdown.

Skies as clear and still as undersides

Of dinner plates, so perfect, surely not

A coincidence? No planes in sight.

This summer lockdown, quiet, still and hot.

Usually winds like spiteful gods

Batter our wee island cruelly.

But someone else, a kindly 'being' thought,

These frightened people need relief to see

The wonders of their lives away from so

Much busyness, the drone, a hive-like pace.

They need to slow it down so I will go

With the inclement weather, I will chase

The clouds away from this small Emerald Isle,

And let the folks have 'summer' for a while.