CORONA FLARES

High Sun in Blue sky
Photo by J.Quinn
Corona Flares
Decluttering within the four walls
To make room for high levels
of human habitation.
There is a contained wildness,
embedded in our measured
shuffling as we keep our distance.
A chasm grows.

Unfettered by routine
With self-imposed cleaning rotas,
It has become permissible
to be trapped.
Our rear-view windows,
Swapped out for a front facing screen.

Becoming prisoners of the screen,
Chewed up data never touching
The side of our thumbs.
Akin to foraged food,
Never touching the side of our mouths.
We wear a path from fridge to mouth
And back again.
Grazing, gazing in absent view –
Close down your background apps;
“Oh my God; I’m lagging.”
Lagging  behind with my children’s
erstwhile climb to the top of that
devalued, academic pile.
The spoils of a make-believe war
bathe our television in light.
Lagging behind, hiding
From real Covid Corona news.
The corpse filled statistics
Leaving a trail, 
of destructive desolation,
Waiting to implode.
Like invading marauders,
In our living rooms.
Here’s to lagging behind
The others who are us,
who mourn the death
of their dead,
Bereft of goodbyes.
The unthinkable has already happened.
Death, vultures overhead.
It is not a good day,
to die.
Though the sun may be high and
the skies are scrub blue.
The gates of grieving are shut.
Do not pass go,
Stay in, Stay home.
Cataclysmic rifts in the here and now.
With no bridging loan,
to the hereafter.
There is no one to see you weep.
There is no one to hear
you keen, in your
Solitary confinement.
Solitude,
Is no place at all,
for sundered hearts.
Trying to bear silent witness,
to the unknown you,
I can’t carry your grief as my own.
Casting you adrift,
With gentle self forgiveness,
I acknowledge my limitations.
My own grief, steering
my compass of compassion.
I know you’re there.
I will keep you company engaging,
in my daily rituals of monotony,
Be they what they are.
My tears finding yours in 
A mop bucket,
full of love, one step
removed
from the lineage of your grief.

My well-worn reflection,
in the morning,
mirrors, those reaching for
A distilled solace,
Through the prism of a glass.

J.Quinn
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