CLAPPING IN THE DARK

And so ends April

In the Year of Someone’s Lord

2020.

A time of dreams

Of nightmares

Of spectres of the past.

In thrall to death.

We hide at home

Made afraid

Of each other’s touch.

Through fear of what

We will not say.

Shut up alone

Cocooned in doubt,

And though we clap

Each week

On the appointed hour,

Each week we fear,

Our neighbour guesses

We do not believe

In angels.

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