On some days in my Lockdown exercise hour the sun has poured its soothing ink quietly like warm milk between still trees and the roads have lain empty as snakeskin between closed houses. And even the birds seemed awed by the largeness of silence. But other days, the madding wind flips my lid and every oval offers up a yell or a ball or a frenzied skitter of yesterday's litter. And I relish the life, the action, the noise. Even although the silence was as smooth as the white-bellied brittle gums, it was also eerie as though this virus is a muffle and our voices have turned inward trying to find our inner landscapes where the echoes are pleasing. Are they ever pleasing?
I took this quote “The trees are mad silhouettes against the rouge pink sky; perhaps they too need emptying.” – A pocketful of maybes
And I used a derivative of the word Madding and the blockage is noise although I realize that I haven’t really emphasized that in the poem.
It’s belated because home learning depletes a brain already depleted by my treatment and writing during the week just seems impossible. Luckily today I had 2 hours at the hospital and was able to corral a few brain cells.