By Tim Brookes
Are these Old days on notice;
our blind faith in tomorrow?
You have to go through the bad
to appreciate the good.
It’s how we grow, it’s how we grow.
We were all there at the start.
Fate drained spirit; forced the air
from so many, some searched for
heaven, most stayed in hell.
Don’t be a victim.
Three simple rules.
Do your job, I’ll do mine,
but you didn’t, we all fell short.
We closed our eyes in difficult hours,
kept our own company on doorsteps.
Ached for contact, relief, salvation,
whilst the brave fought to save us.
Old days never grew into new days,
we glared at squares taking turns to talk.
New party games; bread and circuses,
made the best of it while Rome burned.
They told us the cavalry were coming,
a country now full of lonely self-exiles.
Heroes will try to save the world with
one last crack at a worthy cause.
Too easy to be selfish, careless?
The worry-time is static and endless.
We will only reach tomorrow when
last rites for the old days are spoken.
So, on we go.
Now shaped in our memory.
We won’t forget to say our prayers
for those dark, ruinous days.
Poetry has come to me late in life after having to learn to write again after suffering a Stroke. I used to teach but now I learn how to live.
Since, the first lockdown began I have been working as part of an online Poetry Workshop. We have met every Tuesday and discuss and ‘workshop’ each others poems. The Pandemic is a recurrent theme in our conversations and ultimately some of our work.