Endless walks

It's 7am and minus 1. 

The floor is glittered with frost

like 90s Co-op floors used to be,

shimmering on every step. 

I clutch the keep-cup that keeps me

company on every walk I go on,

these endless walks,

my lockdown routine. 

In before-times, I'd still be in bed at this point,

perhaps,

not leaving for the office until 8.20.

But here I am, trudging blearily towards sunrise,

a peek of purple above the church

warning my camera roll of more clogging.

I walk past the closed shops and bars,

the doors like poor mouths clamped shut.

One of the bars has a parade of

coffee syrups on the bar, crystallised

from months of non-use,

I wonder if they'll ever open again. 

The bottles, I mean, 

but also the bars. 

My depression-purchase ankle length hoodie

swishes against my legs, keeping me warm.

I think about how accustomed I am becoming to cold;

these endless walks,

being indoors all day and resisting putting the heating on,

walking down to the beach and slipping into the sea so I can feel something.

I wonder if we'll carry on doing all of these things,

in after-times, 

or if we'll just laugh at how many

tragic little walks we went on,

and stay in bed instead,

missing the sunrise.