The Last Pangolin - Greta Scape

The world’s last Pangolin
played a plaintive violin:
tunes by Handel and Mozart,
as the planet fell apart,
mellow music for the soul
as the world went down a hole
and its music was inspired
as all humankind expired.

Greta Scape

Social Distancing - Richard Fleming

No man’s an island, wrote the Bard
Conversely, no island’s one man:
it’s sixty-thousand trying hard
to social-distance if they can.

Don’t stand, don’t stand too close to me:
that’s what The Police sang anyhow.
Weirdness is now normality.
We all are social lepers now.

Richard Fleming

No More Hugs - Diane Scantlebury

Don’t want to think
About dying just yet,
But when the daily death toll rises
There’s no safe bet,
Who’d have thought
A venture outside snatched,
A brief breath of fresh air
To catch,
Could be my last,
No more hugs
Or meetings,
No more kisses
Just silent greetings,
From afar
Through a misted window
I can only wave and stare,
At my loved ones
Standing out there,
Mouthing reassuring words
That I can’t hear,
No more hugs
Just an air kiss,
Warm embraces
Sorely missed,
From afar
Along with the food parcel
On the doorstep
Separation we must endure,
In hope that normality
Soon will return,
And there’ll be hugs
Once more.

Diane Scantlebury

Goddamn Seagulls - J. Archer Avary

The bastards wake us up before six in the morning
screeching and squawking bloody murder outside the house.
I stagger out of bed and slam shut the bathroom window,
dry-mouthed, head pounding from last night’s overindulgence.

I climb back into bed and close my eyes but the clamorous
cacophony continues, closer, louder, shrill and piercing.
My wife pulls the duvet up over her head and turns to me, pleading
‘You need to do something about these birds, just make it stop.’

Angry now, I jump out of bed, storm to the window and see
dozens of snow-white gulls swarming in the street, fighting like hell
over ice cream residue stuck to the sides of a plastic container. Garbage
is strewn all over the road and seagulls feast in a gluttonous orgy.

I stick my head out the window into pink daylight and crisp morning
air. An alpha-type seagull cranes its neck, looking at me with its
beady narrowed eyes like ‘get back to bed, you meddling fussbudget.’
Its mates swarm and circle overhead, caterwauling tuneless epithets.

It’s way too early for this, garbage in the street and these
goddamn seagulls. I lean out the window to my waist, boisterously
snarling, snapping, barking, bellowing canine fury into the street.
The hellhound hullabaloo act sends the seagulls scattering.

Tranquility is restored to our quiet corner, and mankind’s dominion
over the animal kingdom remains intact for another glorious day.
I close my eyes and join my wife in bed, aching for one more hour,
one more dream, but it’s not happening, it won’t happen after that.

J. Archer Avary

The Return Of The Flask - Stephen A. Roberts

Image: Jill Chadwick

In a lonely place
Deprived of the chance
Of a shop-bought flat white;
I watch the waves dance

It’s time to revert
To the ways of the past
To the portable brew;
The return of the flask

Coffee or soup
Laced with whisky or gin
Enough for two cups;
While social distancing

Sleek metal design
A Thermos that lasts;
No longer the risk of
A mug of smashed glass

Stephen A. Roberts