Covid means we poets meet late each Wednesday afternoon
on this veranda of the Writers’
Centre,
this building once an asylum for
those fleeing mental illness.
As the day departs, spirits of long-ago
patients
move quietly among the trees,
free from the fear of death-eaters
and the grip of taunting hallucinations.
I see a prayer tree – perhaps
once used by Celtic patients to post
their clouthies.
signalling their yearning to be
delivered from evil,
their desire to be well again –
and loved.
Before the sun completely sets,
we shall hang our ribbons, and
seek relief
from ‘the infected winter of our
condition.’
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