The air races Gathering whispers and daydreams. We are alone. Isolated. Together.

Half an hour of freedom To exercise Means that they cross The street To avoid us.

The air races Blowing my hair upwards. Three layers seemed like a lot in the sun, But not enough in the shade.

The daffodils topple over. They are unwatched this year. Their golden crowns are beginning to fall, As we await the end of lockdown. As we wait for the wind to feel less sharp.