Liturgy for a Pandemic
Each Thursday at eight, we stand at our lintels
to clap for care-workers we hope never to meet.
Behind the fence, unseen neighbours bang pots.
When the antiphon dies, I linger outside.
A blackbird trills. From the hushed street its partner answers.
In our city the pandemic spikes, aloof as the cats
who watch our prayers from behind the glass.
Matthew R Anderson April 25, 2020 Chilwell (Nottingham)
