Here in the now we think of then
And them – of times when we
Could meet outside – touch, kiss, hug – when
We felt like it, so free –
*
That world of honeyed dreans is lost
In isolated dawn
It succumbed in the last spring frost
And cannot come again
*
In April blooms the bees are woke
And drunk on nectar as the evenings wane
They seep and melt through air like smoke –
They may not come again
*
We sleepwalked into viral purgatory
Long distanced days of social dystrophy –
But nightmares fade away at dawn
If we can wake again.
*
**
*
Freddie Omm
April 2020
The echoes of Housman’s “Blue Remembered Hills” are – yes – extremely apposite at this time of loss, when we all wonder whether we will ever be naturally close and affectionate in public again, or whether those days are in fact forever gone.
So lovely!
Thanks much, Luisa!