That Town Distance

The scooter runs past gravestones

bumping rough on the ugly path,

the town panic barring us from

any other course, making outlaw

the green spaces my son prefers.

This stone garden, the place where

in dutiful spring his fellow Scouts

tend proud, tired flags and

sallow rectangles.

The acres lie open, we two excepted.

He launches down a long slope -

flywheel thrusts of leg, laughter

unfurling like a sun-lit scarf.

Our cache of joy has dwindled

in these Covid days: to bare face

to the sky and give breath to glee

is a thrown bolt unclinching the soul

for a short, blessed while.

Beneath the far resurrection arch

my son calls back, cheeks beaming

Heedless of weeds, blossoms or markers.

It seems fair to this tranquil crowd

I think, to share unexpected bliss

while, in their muted company

safe from disease we might stay.