I’m writing, ‘A Lyrical-Lockdown Lament’,

as the only exercise I’m likely to get.

My mind’s in control, while my pen takes a stroll

across this page of A4, with a locked up front door

and Covid-19 is the worst thing I’ve seen

since BREXIT arrived on the screen.

My head’s in this yoga position.

Now my mind’s in a frame of contrition.

My thoughts: “all alone, I’m locked in my home

and a term is erased, exams are not staged.

Education; Education; now damnation!”

So, what will the future hold

and from whom will the stories be told?

From this lyrical-lockdown lament,

in revising retrospective events,

we can hide and keep safe in a bubble

while our world’s in such terrible trouble,

‘Shaking of hands’ is a bone of content:

so-called friends have the virus to kill you.

Now Boris: the man who’s in charge

reigning chaos, in our country at large.

No planning, no thought, no shops, nothing bought

but a two metre rule is a distancing tool

spacing social, domestic and leasure.

He’s a robot! In binary traction,

he’s lost without film, let’s have “Action!”

No forward-planning! Is our future in space?

Twenty-twenty’s the year of ‘historic disgrace’:

discrimination, inequality, ageism and poverty.

We are not perfect beings, but we’ve love, hopes and dreams

in ’A Lyrical-Lockdown Lament!’