Verse for verse…

“Is it the Clap tonight? We’ll eat early then.”
Thursday evening, eight sharp, doors down the street open.
People come out and applaud -for carers and key workers.
Someone is letting off fireworks.
Further down, a young couple,
He with guitar, she with violin.
Play “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” as their little girl sings.
At the other end of the street, through wide-open windows,
A stereo blasts out “I’m Still Standing.”
We shout to our neighbours, “You all right?”,
“Oh, surviving! Be glad when I can get my roots done, though!”
This is England in the plague.

Shopping mid-morning, for us and our daughter,
(I’m the only one allowed out at the moment).
We stand on the yellow and black lines,
A carefully measured two metres apart.
The young lad at the supermarket door, counting us in and out.
We exchange wry comments with strangers.
“This is the first time I’ve got dressed this week,
Been living in my pyjamas!”
“What will you do if you get this virus?”
“Go home and cough on the mother-in-law!”
The humour of England in the plague.

Near-empty roads, the air the sweeter for it.
The birds seem louder, and in the twilight streets,
The fox and the hedgehog go about their business,
Not so nervous as before, there’s nobody about.
A herd of wild goats invades a Welsh town and eats the hedges.
The wild ponies come down from the hills.
Deer move through the suburbs, even badgers have been seen.
The pesky humans out of sight and out of mind,
Come on, there may be pickings here to find!
Natural England in the plague.

We feel each death, mourn with the ones who’ve lost.
We watch the weariness of those who tend the sick, and worry.
We comfort the bereaved as best we can, the English way,
In few, brusque words, but kindly meant and heard.
We miss our families, the hugs and chatter of grandchildren,
Can’t be replaced by Facetime and Whatsapp.
We grumble at the rules, but mostly keep ’em -common sense.
We watch the summer come and look for better times.
In England in the plague.

Don’t mistake compliance for submission,
Don’t think because we’re stoic, that we’re weak.
When all is cleared away, and things can move again,
Don’t believe we’ll go back to before.
The ones who rule and help us now, our leaders,
They’ll be anxious to snatch back the gifts they gave.
They want us to thank ‘key workers’ now and praise them,
But shove them down to ‘unskilled labour’ after.
The money they have spent with open hand when things were grim,
They’ll want to gouge it back when times turn fair.
But already folk are talking, of what is and should have been.
Of money given to the rich that could have saved so many,
Of decades of austerity backed by greed.
So when the old regime calls for its tributes once again,
They may find there’s an accounting they must face.
And maybe we can hope for better things,
In England after the plague