Wish you were here — A quarantine poem
Ate the last of the Marmite this morning.
It is probably about to be the weekend
At the time of my writing you this note.
I suppose I’ll get around to reading
The books on the shelf, and maybe clean the oven
If I’m struck with a bout of domesticity.
Perhaps I should not have prayed
For some time off, for a lie in,
Or wished I had more time to write.
I feel somewhat responsible.
Now all we have is time. Great, sickening waves
Of the stuff. We do not seem to be progressing
Into the future, like before.
Each days begins feverishly at the start of the last
And oscillates between morning and afternoon
Without getting any further.
The weather, at least, has changed for the better,
You’ll be glad to know. The sky has evacuated itself
Of even the faintest trace, leaving the sun bright
As panic and the air lustrous and chill, like metal
On my skin. Come to think of it, it’s as if the air
Is empty, or sort of not there at all.
When I step outside, I notice
The spaces where the sounds used to be:
The sighing that a car makes as it approaches
And passes, the low thunder of a plane inching overhead,
A siren full of mourn. I strain but I find
Only gaps in my ears.
Can’t say I wish you were here but I gather
It’s worse elsewhere. Give my love to your mother, as always.
