It was the worst of times, it was the best of times

I can show you empty roads,

unfrequented parks and playgrounds,

dead beaches, city streets

dying from the drains up,

where you’re never more than five feet

from a malnourished rat,

where owls watch for prey from traffic lights

and stray dogs prowl the empty bus station.

Where do they go to, my lovelies?

They haul themselves to wildness

in the dark beyond their homes:

the woods, to build fires by the beck,

unlit bridleways, those lockdown lovers’ lanes.

Lads play football on the rec at 2 am;

It’s 5 an in. No tackling.

in the car park of a country pub

a choir meets up to soundtrack our dreams.

Writing by MARK CONNORS

Artwork by DIANNE REEVES