Overtaken by cyclists heading into sunrise in your dreams  

Broke grains on Monday, counting red angels

Drunk on darkness smiling on the shadows

A phone call only a shadow away from your fingertips

We are the survivors stunned, in Stockport

Digging deeper, reflective

Talking to the walls

Church bells toll for every day without a death

We are the poets leaving our words open to the rain

Researching our emotions in neither AD or BC  

Sun sinks to resist temptation

to communicate harmonies in online parties.

 

The wood pigeon stood on the anvil recited

Shakespeare open mouthed the moon

Thought he’d seen it all.

 

I heard my first cuckoo today

Looking out from within to a new dawn

Heavy he ain’t, but my brother

Not "Cuckoo, cuckoo , , ," but "chiff-chaff",

and wood pigeons and magpies

thriving in the shutdown silence

Punctuated by morning and dusk choruses

following his lost love over the page and beyond

the joke is you will never learn to laugh at yourself.