When all this is over
I’ll hug my grandsons,
Run fingers through tousled curls,
And take them on exciting adventures.
I’ll glaze the pottery, waiting by the kiln.
Bavarde en Français, over coffee, not Zoom
Go to the theatre, try acting again.
Ramble with pals in highlands and lowlands,
And afterwards drink in the pub.
Join marches for Indy and Save the Planet.
Discover new lands and meet their people.
Go back to my part-time job.
When will it be over?
When R’s below one
And a vaccine’s available
Can I safely emerge in the world?
No screen intervening
Or two metre gap,
Can I finally take off my mask?
Can I play with the boys?
Attend classes and ramble?
Will planes be flying again?
Will we ever return to the way that things were?
Don’t think I’ll go back to my job.
When the summer has gone and the winter has come,
What will I be able to do?
Youthful vigour deserting me,
Back and knees paining me.
Everything’s so much slower.
Not able to remember
What I did yesterday.
Silly old woman
Can do nothing
But wait
Until it’s all over.