It’s a strange kind of lethargy
this quarantine creates,
a Ground Hog Day repeat
of rhythm and routine
until we get it right.
And yet, it is cosy here inside
the cottage looking across the river
at the island treeline’s mound
of green rising like a turtle
from the water.
Through shimmering heat
sparks of light like daytime fireflies
flicker and fade, mirroring
the ebb and flow of tide
and my own energy.
The tranquility of this place
masks the turmoil beyond, where
‘news’ zooms and boomerangs
off nerves already shredded
by too much, and not enough.
If only I could bottle this air,
this peaceful solitude, and mix it
into the world’s morning porridge,
with a prayer to pay attention
to what really matters
we could find our collective way
out of this stand-off, this barrage
of bad, the sense of scarcity driving
a hungry few to overindulge, leaving
the rest of us to fend for ourselves.