Light pours through my window.
It does not trickle, it floods.
Some things get covered.
Some remain in the shade;
Slightly cold and damp to touch.
It is a poor second to being outside in the woods.
Like a cat I find a sun spot and let the sun caress my toes.
I do not feel a breeze or hear the musical hammering of the woodpecker.
I do not find a cycle track and step lightly and quickly,
Weaving through saplings and avoiding roots.
I sit still,
Eyes closed,
Feeling ephemeral warmth,
Hoping it will not fade.
I do not race to the top of the cycle track,
Breathing hard,
Hoping a bike does not come over the crest.
The sun warms my ankles and my pyjama bottoms;
Fresh on yesterday, they feel soft and loose.
I do not notice the swishing of my climbing trousers as I walk at full speed,
Escaping from the pain,
The fury,
The not-fairness,
The pure fucking equality of this virus and its reminders of traumas past.
I stand, my toes wiggling to soak up the light,
And I pad to the kitchen for another cuppa.
Because I’m British and that’s what we do in a crisis, right?
We make fucking tea.
Yes, we make a nice, soothing cup of tea.