by Laura Taylor
bukkake for the nation.
Pass the flannel, please.
Impressions of a Curate's Egg
by Laura Taylor
It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times.
It didn't miss a trick
of the Spring bells
and yellows, marigold's bloom.
Sitting in the long grass
on golden afternoons
hearing nothing, no brawls,
no Friday siren calls.
Mean streets bleached
with a bucketful of shut pubs,
rubbish unstrewn, unspewed-on pavements.
Sky blind blue, buzzard-full,
close focus of our 20/20 vision.
Trade not exhaling desire.
It was smiles wide as wasteland
walked on our doorstep,
deeper to explore every pocket,
nature's locker for an office.
Rare ponds, bramble-racked,
mapped for the autumn.
It wasn't packed motorways,
bus, train, traffic jams,
nose-to-tail delays or verbal warnings.
It was Protecting Our NHS,
empty shelf selfishness,
staying home, injecting disinfectant.
Untested elderly, triaged in reverse,
DNR'd without regard,
dispensing with disposable community.
It wasn't herd immunity
even though Pat Vallance said it was,
on the telly.
Galloping mortality, soap-sud slides.
Just in from Durham, Pinocchio advised
that his tongue was as long as a telephone wire.
Bridges burning, lesson learning, medics muted
by a minister primed to divide
and conquer truth.
It was paper rainbows, Thursday claps,
pots and pans banged
for the badge
that Matt had offered,
not the pay rise, that he didn't.
It was Cheltenham, Atletico, "official advice".
It wasn't quarantining incoming flights.
A week too late for 20,000 graves,
grief borne alone in isolation.
It was One. Bin. Bag. One. Glove. Then. Another.
60,000 deaths on an island with the borders
that you fought on
and failed to control.
Three word slogans
that didn't make the grade.
It's still no vaccination,
infection rising daily.
It had listened to the science
but now it's back to work,
school, tube-bred winter of our discontent
and ravaged population.