Yes, we make a nice, soothing cup of tea

Light pours through my window. 

It does not trickle, it floods. 

Some things get covered. 

Some remain in the shade; 

Slightly cold and damp to touch. 

It is a poor second to being outside in the woods. 

Like a cat I find a sun spot and let the sun caress my toes. 

I do not feel a breeze or hear the musical hammering of the woodpecker. 

I do not find a cycle track and step lightly and quickly, 

Weaving through saplings and avoiding roots. 

I sit still, 

Eyes closed, 

Feeling ephemeral warmth, 

Hoping it will not fade. 

I do not race to the top of the cycle track, 

Breathing hard, 

Hoping a bike does not come over the crest. 

The sun warms my ankles and my pyjama bottoms; 

Fresh on yesterday, they feel soft and loose. 

I do not notice the swishing of my climbing trousers as I walk at full speed, 

Escaping from the pain, 

The fury, 

The not-fairness, 

The pure fucking equality of this virus and its reminders of traumas past. 

I stand, my toes wiggling to soak up the light, 

And I pad to the kitchen for another cuppa. 

Because I’m British and that’s what we do in a crisis, right? 

We make fucking tea. 

Yes, we make a nice, soothing cup of tea.

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