A Walk in Lockdown

Just like the rest, who wish to take the air,

I partake in the new legislative habit,

by putting on my fabric shield, and scrubbing

my dutiful meat hooks, in order to walk.

I leave the Spring, and head to the Sconce,

where Charles and Oliver had their bloody chat,

though it’s far stiller now, as the wind gently

brushes through the blades of the grass.

I climb the hills; where the cannons fired,

and then I stride with the Devon, where

swans join my promenade, and our eyes

make contact, and though we have a lack

of language, we understand each other’s need

to energise. After this, I then salute dear Tom,

a friend long gone, but who is never forgotten,

and my mind’s eye hopes that his spirit saw.

I quit the Sconce, to head to the Castle and

to the Riverside, where I played to thousands,

but in order to do this a detour is made via

Millgate, where I worked a three man job,

where my heart was weakened, but my mind

was toughened and tested, and I look up at the

window of Melford House, where I sat, with

a compounded thought of nostalgic tension,

then familiar faces pleasantly interrupt the

moment, and we greet each other, with I hope

a mutual relief; that it was nice to see one another.

The fleeting instance passes, and my mind

briefly splits into two, it was truly nice to see

them, but with the long time that has gone by;

not seeing them, they were like ghosts of my past,

thus, the second I looked up, it was horror first,

but then it became the friendly encounter as it was

supposed to be, as it should be, in such hard times as these.

I now reach the death place of King John, old

Newark Castle, and I survey the grounds, with

the mental pretence; that I am one of his courtiers,

reminiscing of what unfolded, and conceptualizing,

of what really happened, but then the modern world

floods back to me, as the siren of a nearby ambulance

whirs, then my feet take me past the bandstand, where

I make a left out of the gate, to tread across Trent Bridge,

and the river is very high, so high, I could give a duck

a high five, but I won’t, as I’ve been told it’s rude to play

with your food, so I continue on with my hands still dry.

My peepers look right to the sunken Barge, where

the pints, the wine and the squashed frogs flowed,

and they will again, as these churches in disguise, the pubs,

will open their arms once again, for my embrace, where

I can vent, I can share, I can cry and laugh, but I will hold

on to such a thirsty thought; as I need to continue with my walk. 

The Riverside Park, is my last stop before I return home,

but I will drink it in, to savour this visual cocktail of the

ancient and the new, with more smiles reaching out to

me, with each smile telling me, that although we are still

in a loathsome lockdown, we are all in the same boat,

and we will paddle hard to reclaim our normality. My

thoughts become a pictured memory, as I remember

the day; where I played to the multitude, where there

was jubilant sound, instead of a decaying silence, but then

I recall the smiles that I have seen today, thus my words

are far too coarse, thus I continue with my course, with

a happy and thankful heart, with a dream to hold on to.

When I return to number thirteen, I pour a glass

of something cheerful, to toast to a simple thing, and

that thing is: I am alive, I am loved, and of course, I issue

a vote of thanks, to my feet, my vehicle, of who I adore,

so, to many more wondrous walks, across this floor.