Pandemic 3am Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Three am. The world beyond our doors has become virtual
Hospital staff, protected but vulnerable
Scrutinisesee-saw medical charts through layers of plastic
Stand by the dead, the dying

Like guttering candles,
Splintered families splutter into grief
Bewildered by the speed of a loved ones leaving

TVs and I-pads act as anaesthesia
Charon's arms are aching, his ferry full to tipping

There are no peep holes into the future
A man who holidayed in Italy,
Is pillaried for bring this plague to his island

Nobody queues at stations, airports, bus ranks
The gardens are eerily empty
Helter Skelters idle in pleasure parks

The birds are having a ball
For them, lost Eden has happily returned

Clean air, only the cats
To impinge on their birdy heaven

We can't soft pedal our way through this pandemic
Sci Fi face masks obscure multitudes,
Like Sassoon's' war comrades
Floundering their way through gas

It is 3am. Fear holds our feet to the fire
The Devil's hour. The crematoria are busy
Care home residents are feeding the flames
Escaping WW2 by the skin of my teeth
I am looking into a glass, darkly