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.