Traditional

As I don’t walk out
this lockdown morning,
and see no fields and pastures green,
and find no maiden long lamenting
underneath yon willow tree.

I stay indoors
and I tell my cell-phone
about my hard recurring dream,
about the woman who is absent
and not weeping at the stream;

how things have turned
all topsy-turvy,
where what happens doesn’t now,
and folk who do things by tradition,
like the farmer, didn’t plough;

where the woman
who’s become a doctor
and heals the sick with holy hands,
texted me once and cursed her longing,
and sat her down in desert sands.

And still indoors
this lockdown evening
I weep for greed and pride, and tenders green,
and dream me of lass lamenting
underneath yon fever trees.

 - Brian Walter