It is so tiresome now.

To have so much to do;

but cannot do it.

To have so much to say;

but cannot say it.

To have so far to go;

but cannot journey.

Our existence is masked.

Our life on hold; we hold

our breath waiting, watching,

for the promised land they

tell us lies just ahead.


This has gone on longer

than some biblical plagues

of forty days and nights.

We count ourselves lucky

if we are still even counting

the days - no, weeks, months.

It is the same everywhere.

There are always complainers.

Some cry louder than others.

Some have good reason as

there are many empty chairs

and cold pillows on the bed.


I was in Dublin at the start.

A few glory days in March.

It was slow to catch on as

we walked the streets and

saw the puzzled faces and

the two-meter marks.

Even the pubs were closed.

There was a sign on a wall

"There is a good time coming,

be it ever so far away."

And that became our quest,

-- be it ever so far away.


November, 2020