Lockdown

Shop windows are frozen in time:
Happy Mother's Day, they say,
weeks too late.
I think this as we queue silently for vegetables for over an hour and two metres apart.
How are you coping? People keep asking. I 

ask it back.
Tiny moments become meaningful:
the sound of a robin singing,
the sun on my face as I drink a cup of tea outside,
the shadow a houseplant makes on my wall.
The roads are empty so I finally have the confidence to ride my bike.
I'm going out for jogs which pre lockdown me would laugh at.
But it's cold and my chest hurts from the running and I think is this it,
is this it,
is this corona? Is it now?
Is it?
And then I get home and have calls with people I love and it melts away for now.
Rainbows in windows are an unexpected joy.
The slow way of adjusting settles in.
I forget which day is which.
My phone needs charging more than ever
now we're all communicating more.
I live for the updates. The shared photos and texts and calls.
I look at the weather forecast app as far forward it will go thinking: please more sun.

I put the kettle on.