It’s the weekend again and the rain lashes the windows.
I’d had some thought of weeding the garden, but the wind
Has other ideas. These artificial distinctions we make
Between workday and rest — we’ve been home for 63 days
And one blends into another. I could have gardened yesterday
And worked today but convention dictates that a Friday
Is set aside for labour, whether there’s employment or not.
And now I cannot — rivulets of water streaming down the pane,
The chill of autumn creeping through the walls, gusts
Whipping the branches against the house. I think of
Loads of washing to be done that will now tumble in
Smooth electric hum rather than bask in sunshine
And of loads of shopping waiting to be unpacked downstairs,
Of jigsaw puzzles and an unread manuscript,
The endless tasks unfinished and the world that continues,
Weather notwithstanding
