This virus has distorted my sense of time.

I am a little uncertain of the day today.

Friday, did you say?

Then again, it could be Thursday.

February seems a long time ago.

The first day of lockdown? A while ago.

But really, how ago is ago?

For some the hours are crawling, ever so slowly.

For some it is zorbing down the hill, rolling.

For me each day appears the same.

This month is just the last with a new name.

One day maybe melting into another

I think I am too dazed to bother.

This virus has disrupted the rhythm of my life

I miss those boring routines that moored me to time.

The dressing and the rushing was morn

The rumble in the tummy was noon.

Here comes the missus with allegations of crime,

Which tell me I am home well past my bedtime.

The last couple of months have been grim.

With the chances of a vaccine ever so slim.

Time has trudged heavy and slow.

And all one could do, was mask-up and lie low.

What is the idea of Time, I wonder

Is it in the mind or is it for real, I ponder.

Where does it come from and where does it go?

What hill does it descend from, to what sea does it flow?

It is time that tells us how long we had lived.

And maybe time does know what lies ahead.

So do we go through time or does time goes through us?

Do we change with time or does time change us?

Time, Aristotle once mused, is the measure of change

Between the beginning and the end, the mid range.

Time is the now and the then,

Which lets us pick precisely the when.

“Time does not exist on its own”, he cries.

“Between the before from the after it lies.”

Time is not just a number, I say.

The hands of time guide me through night and day.

The arrow of time goes just the one way.

The past is memory and for the future, let’s pray.

I understand your clock now, Salvador.

You too were behind a locked door.