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?