I wrote this poem in response to the imminent return of live-theatre productions after months of closed doors.
Shut doors. Shuttered windows. A crimson glow clings like my dreams To the walls of my second homes - A new red-light district in London: The West-end with a broken heart. The Globe, The Almeida, The Royal Court Theatre To name but a few for a start. Post-apocalyptic streets Of a city that hustles and bustles With rustles of paper From audiences' programme’s pages Being turned, are now silent. And Box Office dealings of last-minute tickets Lie sleeping, awaiting our artistic spirits. But in the low gloom and saddening doom Of this abyssal tunnel Is a welcome and familiar glow: An uncomfortably warm sight – the limelight, the spotlight Will shine bright. Down comes the house light. Curtains rise to new heights. Actors tread boards again: up-stage and down, Critics once more don their typical frowns. The world will breathe again. Theatre will live again. More vibrant and exciting than before. #SaveTheArts