Busily sculpting my foolish old life

Poem by Anne M Jones

Busily sculpting my foolish old life, well past sell-by date,
Freedoms many: to curse expected trains that were cancelled or late.
Adventures worldwide, limitless movement, grateful for all I could shape –
Fanned delusional flames of eternal youth.

Like a thief under cover of night, this Covid crept up,
Ubiquitous, indiscriminate, removing self definition,
deadly for us oldies
Who must now be confined.

Left alone, clay hardens.
I am re-formed, become ‘geriatric’.
Sans choice, sans company, sans everything.

Yet somehow Nature blasted us with new glories
Mocking our previous vanities,
‘How dare you mess with me?’ she calls
brandishing fresh swept skies cleared green fields
flowers polished like fresh ceramic
of rare colours. Birdsong, a whole symphony
embraces me on my daily bike ride
in lovely Peckham Park.

And my children phone me every day.

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