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Social-Isolation at Eastertime 2020

Our tiny, tangled patch of grass nursed jonquil bulbs. Mid-March, stems thrust up, citrine trumpets flounced by white skirts burst

through and opened. Bloomed in bracing breezes, danced freedom, for Spring had come.

Since then, confined to home, I have watched them every day – seen them nod, heard whispers as, rooted to the spot, they play.

My moods swing roundabout, resilient high and morbid low. I look and wish that I could stand fulfilled, like them, and sway.

Sometimes, I wish that jonquil was my given name. Then, maybe I’d have a chance – perhaps mature and learn, accept my distanced lot.

Today, with godhead safely risen, jonquil-heads are tinged with brown. Petals curl and take their leave – return to rot and mulch my garden’s ground.

At first their loss, another one, greys out frail hopes of better days –

and yet, when I close my eyelids a legacy is evident: sunned images remain.

My friends, marooned in time and place, calm agitation to a standstill. With grace they show all things will pass –

many uncertain instants –

all eternal cycles day and night, good and bad, life and death.

By Ceinwen Haydon


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