Asclepeion by Ross Thompson, written in Bangor during 2020 Lockdown
And yet, so grateful for the winding down
of this clock:
a chance to stop, pause, reflect, convalesce
and take stock
of how we all ended up so cutthroat
and cut off,
to unyoke our heavy burdens, to walk
out of step
with jittering rhythms that rendered us
underslept
and propelled us to be competitive,
so entrenched
in our busyness - the constant drumming
of sword duels
and dogfights - to see how far afield, how
out of tune
with the true line we were, how foolishly
we refused
to concede our need for solitude,
an armistice,
a truce, a ceasefire with those who harmed us,
catharsis,
letting go, a humble acceptance of
powerlessness,
a tending to our wounds in these houses
of healing,
a moment to halt our faltering hearts
from beating
quite so quickly, some time out, a respite
from feeling
so paranoid, sickly and tearful for
no reason,
a need to relinquish, to embrace this
strange season
wherever it may lead, that we would all
agree on
letting ourselves be cupped, like fallen birds,
in the palm
of slowness, the curative spa water
and the balm
of stillness. Check in to this hall of sleep
and be calm.