Corona days, trudging along the silent towpath
of the canal, wishing that it was the sea,
each day I hear, singing along the airwaves,
fresh news of death, divorce, disability.
How distant now the days when I was battling,
three months ago, to set the world to rights.
Now, every trivial move must be considered.
I gasp for sea air.  I envy the red kites
that wheel above us, back from near-extinction,
enraptured, each day feasting on roadkill.
Celandines, crowsfoot fringe the path where few now
step out, spring colours, radiant and cruel.



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