Connecting Through Corona

By Doug Dunn I am finding relating to neighbours is taking on a new form with the constraint of separation. This morning it seemed so easy to knock on my neighbour’s door and invite Lisa for a second coffee at the bottom of my garden.   Last time, it was sunny and we chatted for an hour at separate ends of my garden table.   She gave me some useful tips about pruning a cherry tree and vigorously trimming lavender bushes. This time it started to rain so the conversation was brief but we had time for a coffee and croissant.   We talked again about repainting my white garden fence and she kindly lent me her power hose to help clean off the moss. I am now planning to repaint the fence over the weekend as we were expecting dry weather. I’ve also discovered that we have things in common, both with 26 year old daughters and that we enjoy playing bridge, bird watching and walking.   She told me she has experience with handling falcons. I forgot to tell her I went on the walk from our hous

WHEN A CHILD IS BORN And so a baby is born. This must mean that the father is healthy. Or healthy enough to tend for it, Alongside his much younger spouse. And naturally, all parents attempt To fashion a particular world for their children, But this father can print his own labels Within the confines of his much maligned Numbered house.  As the child grows, will we? And how will the boy’s special playground Be peopled? Will his Rockinghorse bridle, Or will the numerous gifts he receives digitise? Will they be constructed through craft? And then be delivered by some form? Of Amazonian Soldier;  let’s say, a brash And blonde model, such as the kind Dad Once prized? And what will this baby be like? Will he resemble Trump’s youngest? A thwarted Prince prowling floors in his own Golder tower, or will the boy become expert, And more properly schooled in deceit? A boy who never tells the full tale, And keeps his tuck and

WHAT I SEE A possibility strikes: am I living now through these poems? In some respects that seems joyous, as they rise and command In some way. I used to think my life a stopped plot, But now I have become brief television, something to be kept In the corner and for others to ignore, or to play. And yet we all broadcast now, both to ourselves And our loved ones; witnesses at the window, sat on our Laptopped thrones with low phones; waving while waves Of a different sort rush to claim us, as the seas of change Swelter and conspiracy’s force near cyclones. If we could look through the screens, we would see The pixelated puzzle before us; hints from the homeland That we have come to fear as we wake, for puppets lose Their thin strings when the ties that bind fix and fox them, And they are forced to shop and to scavenge Before somebody buys the last cake. There is then, A mission to this and a means to keep writing, As if each word placed

AT EITHER ENDS OF THE STREET At either end of my street live two elderly women Called Eileen. One is overweight and near housebound, Her legs and feet swollen, but what with medication Drops, nurses, neighbours, she has no real need Of movement as no moment she has appears free. The other’s thin, frail and sways before some early Point of dementia. Or perhaps the word port is more Fitting, as the world she once savoured, or so it seems To me, sets to sea. Her son lives a few houses down And has her onscreen every moment. But once a day She eludes him and can be seen making her escape From my door. ‘Where are you off to?’ I ask, As she turns to smile at me, ‘Just up the hill, to the Corner and possibly round the bend,’ she implores. Her will is what’s sick. Her self-awareness seems Healthy. I smile at her softly and at the slow poignancy Of her plight. Perhaps that’s me in a few years, I think, As I do my best now to guide her. I list

By Cláir Ní Aonghusa In Ireland, we pride ourselves on doing funerals well. They are public occasions. Friends attend the funerals of their friends’ parents without knowing the parents, work colleagues turn up as a mark of respect, and long forgotten acquaintances can appear unexpectedly. Until fairly recently, funerals were always preceded by what’s known as a ‘wake’, A wake was a mixture of celebrating the person’s life—giving them a ‘good send-off’—and keeping vigil with the bereaved, generally in the home of the deceased, the deceased’s body present throughout, usually in a coffin. This practice is still common in rural Ireland The viewing of remains, as they’re called, even if it takes place in a funeral parlour, is as important as ever. And the custom whereby neighbours and friends deliver food supplies to the family—cooked meals, snacks, sandwiches, cakes, tarts etc—still endures, especially in rural areas. Covid 19 restrictions limit attendance at funerals