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Archive for March, 2020


No more lengthy seafront strolls,
Even where few others go,
And seductress sun beckons me
To bask in her luscious glow.

No more shopping in small stores,
Where shoulders rub far too close,
And breath commingles with breath,
Portents of potential fatal dose.

No more near social interaction,
We must scale back in good faith;
Our aims must all now be the same,
Staying home and keeping safe.

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It breaks my heart to see the town
I made my home four years ago,
Be to its knees brought cruelly down,
By an unforeseen foe, laid low.

Lines of listless people straggle
The erstwhile bustling shopping street,
Six feet apart, no speech or gaggle,
Silent, patient, shuffling their feet.

Some wait to get cash from machines,
For stores that will only take cards;
Some with trolleys in third world scenes,
Praying that shortages are past.

Coffee houses, bars, and restaurants closed,
Some may not reopen their doors;
Dark, empty shopfronts lie exposed,
Bleak images of a town floored.

The day cannot come soon enough
When we’ll be free to hug again,
Laugh and chat over coffee cups
And joy will overcome the pain.

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Walking on the Leas has the same appeal
As ever it did when Alice Keppel strolled
Its green sward with her philandering king.

But this morning, there’s an unfamiliar feel,
The world has changed, grown frail and dull and cold,
Though the blue sky screams out the start of Spring.

The peace along the path seems so surreal,
People keeping their distance, young and old,
As waves crash beneath and the small birds sing.

Nature mocks mankind’s poor attempts to heal,
Bright sunshine sends the wind and rain on hold,
Our latest disobedience our last fling.

Enjoy the sun, stay as long as you can,
You may get ill, but also get a tan.

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Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Craving a full English breakfast
But no place left for me to choose.

Went strolling along the Leas,
For my approved exercise;
Went strolling along the Leas,
For my approved exercise;
Looking for my ten o’clock coffee fix,
But no place open, I tell no lies. .

Went shopping for a toilet roll,
Just one would do for now, no more;
Went shopping for a toilet roll,
Just one would do for now, no more;
Searching high and low around the town,
But not a single sheet in any store.

So I think I’d better stay home now,
As the politicians instruct me to;
So I think I’d better stay home now,
As the politicians instruct me to;
I’ve got eggs, bacon and coffee there,
But for toilet rolls I’ll just make do.

Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Craving a full English breakfast
But no place left for me to choose.

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How many times d’you wash your hands a day?
Between twelve and twenty I’d have to say,
Never been so soft, like a baby’s bum,
So one good reason for not feeling glum.

The four horsemen have smiles on their faces,
Sunning themselves in all the best places
As they scatter the crowds standing too near
On the beach, outside pubs or shopping for beer.

Plenty to do while you’re residing at home,
Read a book, clean the loo – or write a poem;
Watch TV if you must, though the news sucks
For me, I’d rather be feeding the ducks.

Learn a language, decorate the spare room,
Teach your children well, watch your flowers bloom;
Catalogue your DVD collection
Or make more time for quiet reflection.

No better time to heed Jean Paul Sartre’s quote,
Hell is other people he wisely wrote;
So if you venture outdoors, please keep clear
Of others if you hold your loved ones dear.

We must mind the call for self-isolation
If we have any chance to save this nation;
But if you’re sad at missing your hugging,
We’ve sent packing the virus of chugging.

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Outside my bedroom window
A lonely wood pigeon sits,
Mourning his mate that has
Mysteriously gone missing
This past week and a half.

Compelled to remain
On the same spot,
On the same branch,
On the same tree,
Day after day after day
In the hope she may return.

He has neither called out
Nor left his perch to hunt for her,
He waits, still and stoic,
As a pair of frisky magpies
Cavort blindly above his head
And a nimble squirrel scurries
Along the adjoining branch.

He does not flinch a feather,
But sits and waits
For when his life
Will be the same again.

Though it can never be.

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Muffled footsteps on grey cracked pavements,
Whispered voices, even in vigorous debate;
Motorway noise reduced to a dull murmur,
A spectral stillness permeates the air.
The sun is shining but the children’s playground,
Slides, swings and climbing frames all,
Is empty, except for puzzled pigeons
Pottering around for particles of food.
Meanwhile, a mere half a mile away,
Shoppers scream and scuffle over
The last half dozen carton of eggs
And a pack of four quilted toilet rolls.

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