Deluge

By: 

Lynne

Hjelmgaard

I believe it was in the middle of the first lockdown when there was a terrific downpour and I had left the window open to smell and touch the rain. Feelings of loneliness, despair, worry, living alone and being far away from all of my loved ones, knowing I would not be able to see them for quite some time, plus not being able to venture for very long out of doors (living alone in a flat) that feeling of isolation and disconnection from the world and grief for all the hundreds dying every day, for those in the NHS and in hospitals on the brink of despair trying to cope, the helplessness we all felt, all this contributed to the poem.  

A sprinkling turns to downpour,
the ailing world enters
my window.
May it wash our ills away –
says my whispering voice
– this is where I live,
but do I live here?

Should we stay inside, stay away,
is safe right, right where I am,
can I take it – can my children,
will their children’s children,
will they fix things, can anyone,
does the world?

Almost summer.
The sycamore more floral,
deep and full of intensity,
next to the purple burgundy leaves
of its neighbour –
yet unidentified –
all my loves near to me.

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