Entr’acte

Small acts of kindness: flour, a battery,
Saying hello in the street to a stranger, and smiling
Like on Christmas Day in another life.
Cherry trees blowing a dainty litter
Of blossom over shoes in the supermarket line.

In a different age, two Tuesdays ago,
We grumbled about the weather and selfish cyclists,
The boiler engineer not turning up,
Being kept on hold to a tinny Home on the Range,
And finding we’ve bought the wrong kind of yoghurt.

Today I thank a girl in the local shop
Who sells me milk and cotton-wool buds,
At the distance of one unfolded bassoon,
For being there, a reassuring constant
Who still has bars of soap for me to buy.

We talk – this week – in battle terms of those
We call the heroes, formerly unsung,
Who now are on the front lines tending us,
In sickness, when we’re well, or hungry, sad,
And when we die; their sacrifices great.

Today I wrap myself in smaller comforts –
A tray of tea and toast on the step in the porch,
Chats with neighbours across the garden wall,
All of us now allies through the scarcity
Of sourdough starter, tahini, or of lattes.

The plague does not discriminate: a nurse,
A politician, beggar man, or thief.
But this is no democracy, and how
We might survive may yet depend on our
Estate in life. There’s nothing fair in death.

I say today I’ll never take for granted
The ease with which I once bought tins of beans
And tuna, bleach, Scotch eggs, or gin,
On a whim, without much thought; but when Ocado
Lets me book a slot again, what then?

Will I stay a blessings-counting sort,
Not pissed off by sorting-office queues;
By other drivers giving me the finger
Because I hooted them to move an inch;
Not swearing at the automated checkout?

Or will I, as the body does, forget
The fear, the isolation and the lack
Of artisan poilâne for ready money,
And go about my business rarely thanking
The ones who care and give and love and serve?

Taking taxis when I want, and buying
Random stuff that I don’t really need
And incensed that I am forced to wait
A whole three minutes for the shower to heat,
Or that my tax return won’t do itself.

But maybe, yes, just maybe I will choose
To rest a little calmer and find joy
In small things, slow things, seeing in delays
An opportunity to take a breath
And stop to pick up litter, smell a flower.

Today I sniffed wild garlic in my garden
And stood and watched a blackbird on the feeder,
And filled my fountain pen with turquoise ink
And wrote a letter to a friend, and chose
Not to wash my bras or hoover stairs.

And when the loneliness and loss is done,
I’ll hope to guard the stillness learned, and grasp
Those hands extended virtually in friendship,
Across my garden fence, my gate, my world,
To touch them all for real and not let go.