Confined to our homes we wade in liquid time.
Its brackish tides lap at our limbs and refresh our egos,
though we’ve never a
drop to drink.
We build our castles out of sand,
only to stare astounded as foreseen waves
soften, smooth and sunder
what we thought we had made.
With our doors now agape, we watch the
steady temporal ebb,
as it rejoins us with the wider ocean at large.
Our hearths lie unlit
in the now hanging damp, and urge us fraught
from our shelters.
Yet what joy was there ever to be found
from inside these sodden cells?
Where we’d burn our hands for an
ounce of human warmth:
holding paper months to a cruel night-watchman’s lantern,
just to weep as daily ashes scatter and vanish,
inconsequential and lonely
in what was only ever
the idealistic mire around us.
But now, as the days contract in the swelling cold, perhaps
even to swim briefly in wintry waters together,
we’ll make up for lost time.