Clio David
Inside, upstairs (London in lockdown)
Seagulls fly up the Thames estuary, over container crates,
old shipping yards,
the City Airport runway
of retired planes
new housing developments flashing gold
in the early morning sun.
London sleeps
no, it hides.
For the first time since the war
the toy-town streets are ghostly
odd cars, lone ants
who’ve lost their way
shops boarded up
restaurant chairs and tables, still lives
playgrounds mute
office blocks, cliffs of sculpted glass
their insect-like eyes glinting and deserted
everyone is inside
with their families,
or single, alone
fearful, loving, fighting, dying
all the engines of the city have broken down
and in this strange early morning,
our bodies are reborn,
soft and undefended, like molluscs
masked people drive in cars around the city
inside we are still, but everything around us is moving fast
towards an unspecified disaster
or so the news on our phones tells us
we all have the same news and it spells disaster
masked people ward the streets shouting
2 meters apart!
the ceilings cannot hold us
panic swells in the blossom-scented air
sunshine warms us,
hazy, eternal mornings shield us
from this ill wind
fanned by bats wings
the whole world brought together
friends and foes
we cannot hold each other,
we are all dangerous now
sudden rain, a brief release
a rainbow
arches over the city
its colours vibrating with sublime portent
roofs black with wetness
blossom crumpled
sweet smelling on the pavements
like remembered loves
time passing with fisted arrows
of sunlight
in the wet grass
remembered beaches, sand in the creases
of old lives
glimpsed blinding and golden
from our dark urban caves
on satellite coordinates
marked in cyberspace.
the lockdown is political
it reaches into our silence
spies on us
through our phones
the photographs we choose to share
the people we choose to share them with
we are watched, especially now
Police patrol the streets
and people in masks
‘two meters apart!’
‘no gatherings’
‘do not leave your house
except for food and exercise’
food dominates thought and conversation
like the time before
women were confined to houses, extensions of furniture
and other people,
cooking their families three meals a day
three meals a day!
there is no time for anything else
there is no escape
except out to buy more food
runners run, cyclists cycle,
trying not to breath the same air
we cannot get too close or we will get ill, be cautioned
or fined.
hospitals are full, NHS staff are working around the clock
to save us.
every Thursday at 8pm we gather on our doorsteps and balconies
to clap for our nhs
new churches of gratitude
we clap, sing, play instruments, bang cooking pots
we give thanks for our wonderful NHS
and hope the government won’t forget when this is all over
who saved Boris,
and remember to save the NHS
children’s bike rides and Easter egg hunts
in public gardens
beds of tulips burning in the early morning sunlight
blossom melting like candles
on the edges of vision
the BT tower looks on with its all-seeing electronic eye
taxis glide by empty
cars drive in circles around the city
inside houses,
flats and high-rises
women are in more danger from their husbands,
fathers, sons,
than they were before,
holding up bruised arms, melting shields
against fists and kitchen knives
smashed like glass against the edges of tables
landing crumpled on the floor
looked on by children
the pillars of their temples collapse
as hell is let loose on the living
a family of geese ravaged by passing dogs
an ill wind that destroys everything it touches
especially petals,
nothing will go back to how it was
huddled together like penguins against a cold history
stalked by passion, duty, judgment, objectification,
victims of our own accidental beauty.
soft, raging, accomplished, we have given birth to the human race
the birthrate will double in lockdown, as will the number of women killed
at home, in their beds
inside, upstairs
food delivery vans, rubbish trucks
and ambulances wheel about the quiet streets
while we sleep in long, hot afternoons
healing the city with our dreams
next door, in the block of flat at the end of the road,
a man with tourettes shouts from his balcony,
a song washes through the air from a radio
we hum along because we know the tune, but not the words
those who have gardens are thankful
and pray for those who don’t
while praying they won’t catch their misfortune
or the virus funneling us into a caged spring
every day the death toll rises, in the care homes and hospitals where
nurses and doctors have become victims too
the virus does not observe boundaries.
it sweeps through cities, countries, continents
soft and unseen
not even the sun seems to slow it down
scientists are researching vaccines,
like hands building walls in blue dust
as we wait for new temples to emerge,
new ways of living
there is no way back
and we don’t want to go back.
only 9% of people do, according to a recent news poll
we don’t know where we are going but we don’t want to go back
to a time we blinded ourselves with Netflix and bad news
so we didn’t have to think
drugs and religion don’t work anymore
only live streaming,
the anesthetic against long dark nights
listening to freight trains rolling over the tracks
4am owls, until the dawn chorus calls in new light
a new day—always hopeful, never the same
Elderflower bushes blossom on urban paths,
cracked by the earth’s heat
people start tweeting recipes for elderflower cordial,
we collect leaves and find names for them online
home-schooling starts again after the Easter holidays
morning pencils sharpened
we have rituals, routine, hope
we know what we’re doing
life is basic but simple
there is no fomo,
only porridge and time to read,
play scrabble, boggle, monopoly,
think, sit, cook,
time for flowers, the scent of hedgerows
time for everything there was never time for before,
when we were worshipping the wrong gods
all our windows are open
dusty afternoons
falling off pavements,
walking down the middle of the road,
to avoid other people
who are more toxic now than cars
I look at my feet, the same feet, but even they are different
now the seagulls sleep
I’m inside, upstairs
a hot bath is waiting for me
April, 2020
—Submitted on 05/03/2020
Clio David a documentary filmmaker for the BBC.
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