We are shut in at home, lockded down like so many millions because of cornavirus. But there are small encouragements in the spring sunshine in our garden.
The butterfly is back. I saw him land in sun, just where the bin had been, before today's collection. This one I had not seen since boyhood tracks by field and hedge, and hunting for a nest and eggs, or treck to net some sticklebacks in weedy crystal streams, with sun rays on a tender neck. And now the garden's all we have, a tiny square of cobbled pave, a shed, a seat, one flower bed, a pond, some pots still winter bare. But I am grateful for his coming, his fleeting garden call. I suspect without the city's humming, and it's poison airy pall, he came just like his maker's Spirit, to quieter heart's now welcome call.
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