Gentle sussuration of a lone car.

 

the occasional, very occasional now, burst of airplane thunder.

 

The clear blue skies over Petersham.

 

The sense that every blessed day is Sunday, is a Christmas, is a slow morning lawnmower in suburbia.

 

People take to the streets looking for the exercise loophole.

 

They spend time looking at themselves, unable to access the distraction of the old world.

 

Some find peace.

 

Some find a spare bottle.

 

 

 

I plant seeds when I can

 

watering them with attention

 

seeing what grows

 

hoping, not prodding

 

wishing to not wait

 

not wise enough to be patient

 

yet patient while I spend my time arguing with my desire to be impatient

 

the world has stalled

 

and we never rushed it on

 

except collectively

 

and now we don't;

 

it's a form of magic

 

 

 

My teachers keep painting signposts

 

they reinforce the way

 

which can be seen

 

and if not seen than felt

 

if not heard then dreamt

 

and if none, simply is.

 

 

The world sleeps too, finally, fitfully

 

as it needed to

 

the great reset

 

the time out

 

the naughty corner

 

the crown of fools

 

and fools crown'd

 

We wait to awake from a shared dream

 

in an age of separation of minds

 

separate of selves

 

we are again together

 

in the same experience

 

as we have always been

 

and pretended we weren't