Acrostic Poetry for our Tiered Times

I have deliberately avoided writing about the pandemic, or anything Covid related, but this has been a trying week. One of my sisters is currently home-schooling her eldest child, who was sent home to self-isolate for two weeks because his teacher tested positive for Covid. Whatever your position is on the government’s response to this crisis, I think most people agree that our children have had to shoulder a disproportionate curtailment of their childhood, including a devastating impact on their education and ability to play with their friends without fear of ‘killing granny’.

She just messaged me to say that her son had been working on acrostic poetry, and sent a photo of his inspired work. It came just as the tiers for the nation were being announced. Much to my dismay, Northumberland, along with the rest of the North East, has been condemned to tier 3.

Covid tier announcement LIVE updates as entire North East will go into Tier  3 | Shields Gazette

Why? The stats show that our rate of infection is far lower than what it is in London. Yet they get tier 2. The latest recorded infection numbers in London for 25 November is 2503. The latest recorded infection numbers in Northumberland for 24 November is 74. Weekly infections in London stand at 16295, while weekly infections in Northumberland are at 637. I can only assume that our London centric government hates the North.

So inspired by my nephew Ben, and our utterly inept government, here is my acrostic poem for our tiered times:

For the love of God,

Under whose tyranny do we suffer?

Covid is no excuse for

Keeping Northerners imprisoned

Our spirits yearn



But the North remembers     

Our liberties are not yours to constrain

Remember the people who gave you your power

It will not be hard to vote you out    

Standing together, the North will hold you to account

Boris Johnson Covid announcement: Halton in tier 3 | Runcorn and Widnes  World

I sent this to my sister. She told me that I forgot to add the following:

Your corruption will not be forgotten

Or forgiven

Understand us when we say:

Christmas is upon us, yet

Under chains we suffer

Not metal but invisible

Too like your own cold heart

Merry Christmas indeed Boris Johnson.

Published by Deborah Siddoway

Dickens enthusiast, book lover, wine drinker, writer, lover of all things Victorian, and happily divorced mother of two lovely (and very tall) boys.

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