Houses above scream out with fear for what may be inside. Their reflections on the river move and change shape in the breeze, fading in and out with the sun and the reality of life that used to be.  Silence is everywhere, very loud in its visibility, hanging onto the memories of people's voices and children at play, now invisible in their innocence and absence. 

In their hearts the children and people still shriek and talk about the joys of life, not yet understanding the realities of what lies ahead. Laughter is heard in the fading distance. The odd conversation is still alive across the echoing river basin, acknowledging the existence of humans watching and waiting.   

Paper coffee cups explode with visibility within the hands of the odd person emerging from an open coffee shop, which once was alive and active to all. Where conversations took place and people gathered, to laugh and talk about simple things. 

Bicycle riders in their lycra, now absent, once rode along the river each morning and stopped at this coffee shop to engage with each other, joking about the rules of distance and chatting to one and all.  A place where humour existed and enthusiasm reigned, young people, policemen and women, lawyers, detectives and government employees called in.  Staff chattered to the customers, customers talked and shared stories with the staff, a place that many called home. The regulars were known by all, but now the continuity of it is no longer. Instead life for this place has become that of paper cups and take-aways.  

However, birds still fly overhead; a black swan glides along in isolation.  An egret dives to recover its morning feed.  Pelicans are something new on the river, yet they gather this morning. Life is almost normal for some.  

Across the other side, a man in a fluoro vest walks silently along the path, carting away the refuse of yesterday. Not seeing or noticing the empty chairs, stacked and alone behind closed doors.  Perhaps there is good in all of it.  Nature remains as is; it is we who are different, hiding away from the world within our own cocoons or holding cells. Venturing out within our incubators on wheels passing time away from our houses, something that perhaps will cease to exist in the future, as we look from behind the glass of our incarceration, waiting for that tomorrow which is slow to come.  

The beginning of our solitude is here, we rely on ourselves to understand and partake of the next beginning of our future life that will be given to us slowly over time. The acceptance of which is not so easy to digest. Yet we wait for that good news which is somewhere around the corner, invisible, but existing, a life-line to a future that we hang onto.