Gentle sussuration of a lone car.
the occasional, very occasional now, burst of airplane thunder.
The clear blue skies over Petersham.
The sense that every blessed day is Sunday, is a Christmas, is a slow morning lawnmower in suburbia.
People take to the streets looking for the exercise loophole.
They spend time looking at themselves, unable to access the distraction of the old world.
Some find peace.
Some find a spare bottle.
I plant seeds when I can
watering them with attention
seeing what grows
hoping, not prodding
wishing to not wait
not wise enough to be patient
yet patient while I spend my time arguing with my desire to be impatient
the world has stalled
and we never rushed it on
except collectively
and now we don't;
it's a form of magic
My teachers keep painting signposts
they reinforce the way
which can be seen
and if not seen than felt
if not heard then dreamt
and if none, simply is.
The world sleeps too, finally, fitfully
as it needed to
the great reset
the time out
the naughty corner
the crown of fools
and fools crown'd
We wait to awake from a shared dream
in an age of separation of minds
separate of selves
we are again together
in the same experience
as we have always been
and pretended we weren't