Village gone silent in pandemic mode.School’s closed. One small girl with a bike is out.The narrow street recedes into its doubtof baker, butcher, neighbour. On the road,cars rarify, whisk by trees that explodein redbud, apple blossom, presage fruit.“Have you had your first, your second shot?”Masked conversations shrivel into code.When I was here last, I could walk three milesback to my histories in Arboras,sweater in backpack, if the wind turned cold.I could see people’s faces. Chatter wasabout elections, new café, roof-tiles.When I was here last, I was not so old.
When I was here last, I was not an oldwolf enclosed all winter in a cave,no pack, no steppes, no prey, who didn’t starveexcept for conversation. I unfoldmemories like a blanket, stained with mould,out of some cupboard. Today, I can savewhat…