Lockdown Lesson 2

I do not give up hope, though no feathered

thing sits and sings at my open windows,

which look out on a washing line, tethered

to my neighbour’s balcony, dingy rows

of plastic strings and pegs, the deep shadows

of my own building on it, fallen forward –

a skyline toppled, downed like dominos.

A word game where hope can’t finish the word.

The only thing that flies in is a raptor

with blood on its beak, the sharpest claws

scrabbling the old panels of the railing.

It leaves bloodstains. Hope is not the chapter

nor verse of its song, I lean and listen close.

I don’t give up an inch, but it sings nothing.