Deathly Chills

By Bruce Jackson

With apologies to William Wordsworth

Isolated, as lonely as a cloud
That floats alone o’er towns and hills
Where once I saw an unruly crowd,
A host of desperate fools;
In the supermarket, filling trolleys,
Fighting o’er loo rolls, bread and lollies.

Corona virus, a plague so malign
Menacing our mundane everyday,
So we contain by staying confined
Trying to keep the germs at bay:
Ten thousand I heard could be affected,
Coughing their last breath if infected.

The authorities a lockdown decree; but the hoarders
Out-did those drastic measures easily:
While citizens stranded beyond our borders,
Lie suspended in a stateless emergency:
I prayed—and prayed—but had one thought
Wishing more loo paper had I bought:

For now, on my couch I recline
In a vacant and pensive mood,
Playing upon my idle mind
Which is the curse of solitude;
And then my heart with sadness fills,
As I think of those embracing covid’s deathly chills.

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