Third weekend of spring, 2020

As if nothing is wrong, the sun calls,  

unaware of the scare of a warm-weather panic.  

Inside, on the radio, Maggie’s husband’s vascular dementia;  

a call every morning, as soon as it’s light:  

How was his night?  

A second, and three generations on a video call. 

Maggie, through a half-heard sob, half held back,  

half restrained, half strained, like a forgotten  

crowd at a small barrier, a rope, a low fence, nothing stronger,  

says of the carers: they keep him around for a little bit longer.  

Still unaware, the sun calls again, calls all day,  

invites us to play, to emerge like pale fireworks  

from winter’s shadow and burst across green and blue.  

A turtle’s peek at cut grass, stretching from bandstand,  

to play area, to pond, stretching on and on, an open invitation.  

There's no celebration,  

no forest of milk-bottle legs.