You are the number eight,

twisting and turning,

to reach infinity.

You are Lancaster,

a once beautiful city,

ruined by Covid-19.

You are a  blooming lily,

filling your tranquil home,

with your lovely radiance.

You are a gleaming red strawberry,

plump and tender,

ready to be picked.

You are the smell of fresh bread,

wafting and drawing people in,

with your delicious aroma.

You are the taste of crunchy chocolate,

mouth watering and brown,

wrapped in crackling paper.

You are the sound of a sweet melody,

drifting on the wind,

like the pied piper.

You are hatred,

twisting good and innocent people,

with your evil ways.