By Elaine Bowden
Before weeks were locked and stretched an age,
The world, pressed gently, tipped about its core.
That I could click ‘undo’, could curl back time,
Remould the year into a different shape,
Smooth a warm thumb over the clay landscape,
Trade innovative normal for old sublime.
New metals tarnished, tangled paradigm.
Unable all to plot the route from here
We curtain cowls, opaque, about our fear;
Experiment at coping, working, being strong
And wear the mask, dissemble, play along.