Some days there are those gusts of gloom,

Laced with the nagging smell of grief,

Which gathers clouds with gnashing teeth

That darken each uncrowded room.

–

Down the sheets of dark descend

To stun outstretched, unshaken hand.

Quick– slam the doors to neighbours’ land

And chill the warm embrace of friends.

–

Some days you ask the darkness in

Through the anxious scrolling thumb.

The graver news that always comes

weighs on your soul, deep under skin.

–

But kindled there, the fire of hope

That punches holes in sheeted dark.

It’s sparked by aching, beating hearts

And fanned by hands of bathroom soap.

–

Though it’s no war; Dunkirk nor Blitz,

We fight these battles where we can.

But let’s give one empty, peaceful hand

To grow where our compassion sits.