I don't know who I am. The old normal

is a mystery, forgotten, buried

in myth making, our favourite pastime.

I suppose he shuffled along the street

on some work-a-day errand, puzzling out

the way events and intention mingled.

Normal, he must have taken for granted

caught between ambition and its outcome;

days that were bookended with evasion,

always looking ahead from the crowded

now of couples, muttered conversation, of

beeping screens and of bodily odours.

Can we now bathe in the scents of jasmine,

the dancing of ripening grass, the call

of the cuckoo above the swaying heads

of bluebells and garlic? Will contentment

be found where we are, in uncertainty?