(As we approach the anniversary of the first lockdown, the theme of this poem from March 2020 may still be familiar)

 

At six o’clock, the hour strikes;

The fragrance of the flowers still remains.

The man about town stays home for dinner

And churches are closed to every sinner.

This March twenty-twenty,

In the land of plenty.

 

At eight o’clock, the hour strikes;

The fisher washes out old maggot stains.

The smoke of comfort billows down the street;

The lonely policeman pounds his phantom beat.

This March twenty-twenty,

In the land of plenty.

 

At ten o’clock, the hour strikes;

Doctors in gowns inspect each other’s brains.

Lost lovers stand at windowsills to pray;

The unremembered stars light up the fray.

This March twenty-twenty,

In the land of plenty.

 

At twelve o’clock, the hour strikes;

Undeserving heroes yield up their gains.

Our sleep absorbs the violence of our crimes

And make us fear tomorrow’s peaceful times.

This March twenty-twenty

In the land of plenty.