Drifting

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