Richard Pierce

Life, Poetry, Writing

A birthday poem for a daughter alone in lockdown in London

THAT

When the world falls apart
Words get lost
And we become fingerprints in the sand
Thrown over by the wind.

Corners are straightened,
Straits fracture, and lines
Are punctured by faults
Of rock and negligence.

Where are we, who
Are we, in the cold sun wind
When invisible plagues
Sweep our tables clean?

There is no answer in loneliness.

But the balcony lights
Onto solitude, and that
Is full of the invisible friends
We fostered as children,

Those voices from nowhere
And those sudden joys
From a silence which seemed
A deepening pit,

Those faces in unread books,
Those tunes from unsung
Operas dressed up as pop
And catchy choruses,

That instant moment
When the world freezes,
Time stops, and everything
Is always perfect. This now.

When we are reckless motion stilled,
And reckless hope in restless motion,
When we believe hope is no longer misery,
And the world will mend us and itself.

That.

For Kara’s 21st birthday. 
R

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