This week Plymouth City Council supported Mayflower 400 Young City Laureate Holly considers the dependably changeable nature of the weather during the lockdown.
Every morning I wake up to the same day. In the same bed, in the same room.
I peer through a slit in the blinds and look out. The garden hasn’t changed, the cars haven’t moved. All the gutters in the tarmac are the same as yesterday.
Although, I couldn’t tell you exactly when the bluebells bloomed.
The weather is the only thing I can’t count on in the picture. Some days the swarms of grass shimmy their shoulders in harmony, others they writhe against each other as if they’re trying to get away.
This week, the rain came. It made my four walls shrink inwards; arms bent tickling both sides of the plaster. Suffocating.
The road bleeds black, but the glistening leaves seem grateful.
Out there, somewhere, there must be a rainbow. But from my window, I just can’t see it.
Blank pages. Blank pages that need to morph into university essays. Or documents filled with words that I can’t read because on the screen the letters scatter like insects. Deadlines floating in the near future that feel intangible, fleeting. Numb inked reminders on post-it-notes dotted around my desk.
Business as usual.
Snippets of lectures absent because of poor internet connection. Losing focus as the crackling voice bleeds from the speaker, thousands of distractions calling my name.
Forgetting minutes don’t rush through the hourglass the way they once did: no commute, no small talk with friends, nowhere to go to just for the sake of going. Forgetting a new pressure has presented itself.
There’ll be time tomorrow, I remind myself kindly. Closing the laptop lid, shutting off the glare.
The open window alerts me. Crystal marbles hailing from the sky and pounding on the metal roof just outside. They bounce off the bonnet, caving into the ground. If you ignore the harsh sound, you can almost believe it is snow.
The gasping winds sigh. Seems like only minutes have passed but the grey clears and the sun pokes out sheepishly. An apology. She never leaves us for long; the walls expand, fingertips stretching outwards.
I watch from my edge of the house, captivated by the canvas swirling with colour. Even the sky needs to let it all go sometimes.
Weather like waves, forgiven the same way we should forgive ourselves.
This entry is a collaborative commission by Plymouth Culture and Literature Works. It has been reproduced from the original, posted here.