 Linda Cracknell | sitemap | log in
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Lockdown poem for a strange Easter 15 April 2020 Knowing So you're wondering exactly
where it went. Whipped
from a pocket by the western wind
on your weekly trip to town?
Or tangling in a cupboard corner
with the Christmas lights,
the jigsaw that’s lost two pieces, the mice?
Or has all your knowing fled where slaters scuttle,
to the garden shed?
So now you've ditched the dates:
The trip to Oban, holidays,
a visit from your sister. Still,
there’s other trusted things you miss:
The boy who comes to mow your lawn;
chums chit-chatting in the fish-van line;
tinned tomatoes always in the shops;
Doig’s, for your new Spring socks.
And Easter Sunday should always spill
families onto Kenmore Beach
with sandwiches, beer, no fear
amidst the hooting geese.
So where now will you find your certainties?
Listen! The blackbird still stands
on the roof at dusk, trilling notes
that drift towards your door.
Primroses spring up; Peewits
soar and tumble on the moor;
bluebells will soon spread
sky-carpets between trees.
Open the window. Isn't that the scent
of ramsons rising in the wood again?
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