Lockdown walk from Bottisham
Will we ever forget this spring?
The cowslips it brought to Bottisham?
The blackthorn blossom, at once, in a rush?
The times I have walked this path, unthinking,
but the men, running, mid-afternoon,
untethered from the days that anchored them,
And the wide wary berth we give each other —
kindly, rueful, watchful —
is new too.
Die we must, but none of us wants it,
for there’s a grassy field to my left, made to hare around in
and make us all daft with spring.
I could use this time usefully, wisely,
I could learn the names of the birds that give weight to the sky.
But, here I am, head down,
noting these words on my phone.
It is not being alone that bothers me, my own
scant company. I think of family, friends
and the distance between us buckles and upends.
The sodden ground of those few weeks ago has hardened;
pressed into the earth, the giddy paths our lives once took.
I’d walk this path to Ely, if the Government allowed it.
But, aye, two gates on, I stop.
The sun, much warmer.
The hum of a tractor
as spring is turned over
and ploughed into the Fen.