The Air is Alive with Fear and Care
When people greet in South Sudan, they hold hands for many minutes – half an hour if the warmth is strong, the bond of kin or friendship. How is your mother? Your aunt? Your son? And your herd of cattle – thriving? Did the speckled cow survive the difficult birth?
Now the air crackles between us, friend or stranger, in every nation. Two metres. Six feet, the length of a coffin.
I walk a narrow path in the woods, meet a man with an unleashed terrier. Will he step to his side, mirror my care? He does. We smile, we breathe a sigh. The air is alive with fear and care.
On the lake the Swans continue their slow courtship. I am learning the songs of the residents – Blackbird, Robin, Song Thrush, Wren – while they have the forest to themselves. The evenings are longer by the day. Larks exhilarate, Starlings murmurate, dark swirls against a brightening sky.
Soon the explorers will arrive from Africa – Cuckoo and Swallow, the creaking Corncrake, not yet extinct. There is no call to quarantine the birds. This island will levitate with their cacophony, their mating joy, they will tell again their noisy stories, how they navigate by star maps and the magnets in their eyes.
Leave us our green walks, I pray. O makers of the rules of wise restraint, let me be close to the wisdom of Hazel, let me watch its first leaf unfurl out of the cell of winter. I can do this, I tell myself. Cocoon. Lock-down. Self-isolate.
And if they say I cannot walk between the trees, there is still my garden, small and unruly, in need of love. I can do this, however long it takes.
If every day I can rinse my heart clean of fear. If I can fill my lungs with the forest god’s green air.
Monica Corish, 24 March 2020, @AllinghamArts #CreativityAgainstCorona