By Liz Kay
At Number Nine
Mary is humming, twisting bunting.
Her fuzzing hands
where Charlie and Steve are leaving for their daily cycle.
On Thursday evening, they had forgotten to clap
(whimsy had found them down the kitchen disco).
Their bay window, adorned now with rainbows and flags
mean to say
‘I am reaching out to you (and you and you and you).’
Across at Number Seventeen
Clara is tired.
She wants to see her mates again (3D).
Baby Olly gurgles though
like any summer day.
Three swifts in a blue sky.
Across and up to Anderson Court
a grid of flats,
like strangers on a Zoom call.
Bob grasps at his Juliette balcony,
captain of his ship.
He is shielding.
‘That Katherine Jenkins is no Vera Lynn’ he spits.
His heart hates that he hates so.
He is gardening these days.
Behind the railings the cheese plant thrives.
It has warmth, light and the breath of a human.
It is lush and loud and strong.
Inspiration: I wrote this poem over the VE Bank Holiday weekend in the midst of lockdown during a Zoom call with like-minded friends, each silently working on our own creative projects. Allowing my eyes to wander out of my window, I was inspired by the sights and sounds of the comings and goings of my own street.
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