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

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