In sanctuary of an unlatched porch
I’ve laid my cycle down.
The door is thick-strong oak:
long hinges brace nail-studded beams,
an iron ring for handle.
I test the turn of it.
But, bolted against contagion,
there’s no communion to be had:
the dancing pools of stained-glass light
unreachable within.
Back home yet looking out,
we step around ourselves, measure
the degrees of separation –
two-metre arms outstretched.
Blessed are those with wings:
a far-wandering Brimstone settles,
briefly matches the budding leaves.
First of the year, it knows
the secret of distance:
that it’s how we become grown-up.
iv.
2020
