I wish I could write you a note

on a peeled beer mat

from the fireside table

of my local pub.


Last night I heard

that the florist of Holland

are burning all their flowers,

that the perfumed smoke

can be seen for miles.


I wish we could go back

to before everything shifted,

before our hugs and handshakes

became weapons.


Back to the terraces and queues

to being shoals of commuters

in two daily tides.


Just this morning

I saw the last sausage roll of its species

escaping the ovens

before the Greggs shut down.


Do you ever wonder

if we might become extinct?

If our world just got moving so fast

that it forgot how it felt to stand still?