Lockdown Poems Below are poems from Andrew Smith's Online Poetry, which is on every Friday at 1PM. The theme was 'Lockdown'. Health & hazards From my driveway, I hesitate, glancing left then right, judging gaps. I turn out once it is safe. Daffs are springing up, bobbing yellow in the sun, oblivious to the Garden City lockdown. The streets are quiet, but I stay on high alert. Someone approaches from a hundred yards away. I nudge to the pavement’s edge; the woman aims for the opposite side. I tread the grass verge to be sure, smiling as we pass. At the crossing, I avoid pressing the button, unnecessary anyway given the dearth of traffic. A man draws near on his mobility scooter and I trace a wide arc of avoidance, walking in the middle of an empty road. Leading into the woods, the path is less than six feet across. I hold back, giving way to a cyclist, then nodding at the jogger who waits for me. Reaching crossroads, I choose the broad bridleway, keep my distance from dog walkers. I spot a family ahead, slow toddling legs and usually I’d be into overtake mode. Instead, I dawdle, consider options, divert to a smaller track. It’s quieter, but no room for passing. When a couple come my way, I step off into the trees, pausing to let the pair go by. I pause. I look up into the canopy bursting into fresh green. I breathe in, I breathe. Sarah Evans *** Lockdown My stomach Has been churning, My brain Whirring. Anxiety heightened, Sleep lessened. This evil virus Has come as a bolt Of lightning Down on all of us. The longest time In all my girls' lives Without seeing them. Stay home, Save lives, The mantra. Repeat, repeat. Charlotte Palmer *** Lockdown I want to write a poem .... But outside people are dying While I stay safe at home. Death is everywhere Politicians are lying Pretending to care I put my pen down again All I sense is grief and pain. I know words won’t come Until this plague is done. I want to write a poem .... Cecile May Raw *** Here's my take on (current) lockdown life. Garden City City life is in lockdown, stores and cafes tightly closed, shoppers snaking in two-metre-apart queues for loo rolls, pasta, flour. I pace dead streets, passing others at a measured distance, their eyes down, expressions masked, my chapped-clean hands thrust deep into out-of-danger pockets. Back home, my garden remains open to the hop and chirp of courting birds, the come and go of squirrels and neighbourly cats. Bulbs burst forth from spring-thawed soil and weed seeds drift in unhindered, insects buzz and swarm, life remaining wild and disrespectful of manmade rules. Sarah Evans ***