Quarantine

By Rory Morrice

14 days of solitude – an anti-viral cleansing,
A sacrifice of liberty for entry to a frenzy,
No faces, names or words exchanged,
Three knocks a day for meals to claim,
The hand that feeds and holds the key,
Keeps inside in and outside free.

Our prison cells house white-sheet smells and small shampoos,
Clear glass for bars with noise of cars and urban views,
Yoga mats and books for learning, self-improvement grounds the ethos,
Memes and streams and outside sheens stray mind from purpose.

Structured time with rules and rota,
Tending needs, consuming quota,
Mouth and nose both scoured for ailment,
Testing clean brings no curtailment.

A lone sailor gazes beyond to the horizon,
Another day is etched as the river swallows the sun,
Progress gained as time is waned,
Beyond the squall no sign of change.

Tracing time starves life of moments,
Listening out drowns sound of essence,
Looking on lacks sight of vision,
Perhaps a time to be.

Scotsman, junior doctor, ocean enthusiast and foodie. Emigrating to Australia after working hard in the NHS in the first wave of the pandemic, chasing a dream to work and live down under.