Plague came and we have all been nudged
off the path we should have taken long ago.
For some, a minor inconvenience, being pushed
on to the sand is temporary. Somehow,
we will get back on track, the world still
and creatures of routine find their beat
like water finds its own level, continuing
the journey to the sea. But the sand
is quick, it is hard to get a foothold here
and there is someone walking on the path
going to my house who looks like me.
Stopping at the end of the lane for a chat
with my next door neighbour Mr Noone,
gossiping about a dropped pebble in a pool.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Marguerite Doyle would be pleased to hear them.