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The Plague by Arthur Richardson

There’s a disease abroad. Our fortitude
is being tested daily on the streets.
The air is filled with loathing like a germ
that replicates itself in hidden ways,
attacking all the things we thought were true,
invading spaces we once knew as safe.

A virus spreads among us as we bear
witness to the horror it provokes.
We’re like the hosts floating on the seas
in hope of finding safer, kinder shores,
unsure of our direction but attacked
and beaten for the crime of being lost.
Perhaps, one day, we will find a cure
but know the only vaccine now is love.  

Arthur Richardson has worked as a bus driver, railway worker and trade union officer. Now retired, he lives in Rochdale. 21st-century Poetry is edited by Andy Croft, email [email protected]

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