My Poetry. Strange Times.

Sitting by the telephone
waiting for your call
not a sound from the playground
were normally a child would fall.
Deadly silence in the streets
except for a scared dog
his bark echoes for miles around
more eerie in the fog.
The stillness of the afternoon
unusually unaccustomed to the unsettled quiet
not even a tractor on the Country roads
or kids running riot!
No sound of a baby crying
can be heard from the opened window
just the whistling wind around the concrete
and the not so funny innuendo.
Will, we ever see the summer days
when everyone had a smile on their face?
will we ever get back to normality
for the sake of the Human race?

© William Sinclair Manson 2025