Dorrie Johnson

Christchurch, Dorset, UK 

 

Dorrie Johnson writes from self isolation which has damned all inspiration for many weeks despite writing poetry over decades. She has had

poems published in literary journals such as Acumen, Artemis, Cannon’s Mouth, Orbis and a small collection followed a dissertation.

Poem completed 23rd May 2020

This time

This time

last year, the usual routines

were all in place, space was found, time

constructed by the calendar.

Last year birthday cards were sent, received,

on time, were opened and displayed.

Last year Brexit dominated plans.

Protests were fuelled by climate change,

young people, angry, massed, defied

the status quo. Folk, used to sounds

of planes, no longer looked when one

passed overhead. Air miles increased.

Last year complaints about the trains

were rife, streets crowded, tables booked,

bingo halls, coffee shops, were full.

This time

this year is quieter; waiting, numb,

for hours to pass, for miracles

to come, for people to be safe.

This year the gifts of space and time,

not always wanted, drag, weighted,

split friendships, families and hang,

heavy, on people staying home.

This year planes line up, silent, still,

grounded. Some folk glance up, surprised

should one be heard or seen, wonder.

Maybe a special cargo flight

to meet some urgent, local need

or people stranded overseas? 

This year trains run with empty seats.

and pass through stations empty, cold.

Work has paused and larger shops mark

social distancing. Pop-up signs

point to cycle lanes, new walkways,

drive-in testing bays. And people wait -

for something - plans, hopes for break-throughs

in science, research, politics,

to end a lockdown, restart work,

open schools, libraries, cafés, pubs,

homes..

This time

next year