Our back yard, with its acer tree and pots of paradise, has been a godsend during 2020 on days when it’s been possible to sit with family and friends, like Sue and Brian, on hot afternoons or warm evenings. As cafés opened, we booked our local afternoon tea (a birthday present for Sally) at the charming 1920s-themed Interlude Tea Room. And we drove down the motorway (first time in six months) to reconnect with our Badby second-family, the Thompsons, at Hardwick Hall – for a picnic and walks round the grounds at any rate.
The Living-With-Covid world is a volatile experience, especially if, like me, you live in a place which experiences a sudden local lockdown. The news arrived that Bradford was experiencing “a spike” right in the middle of a soon-to-be-illegal gathering (if I fully understood the details right of what can happen in which setting and with how many bubbles of people….) Seven months ago, this kind of language and thought would have seemed to be straight out of Alice in Wonderland. But here we are, trying to make sense of international, national, local, family and personal responses to the 2020 pandemic.
Reading poetry has been a perfect activity in lockdown: many poems are short and they distill an aspect of human existence in an intense package of imaginative sound. Recently I revisited Emily Brontë’s 1846 riff on the fickle nature of love (in the first flush of love we often neglect our friends) and the enduring nature of friendship (still shiny in the depths of winter when love has faded.) I’m lucky that I married someone after three years of friendship so I feel the poem contains a truth – that we should not take our friends for granted – that I hope I’ve not abused over the years.
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree –
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.
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