Look at the dogs walking with their families, or chasing a ball in the park: they seem a bit perplexed by this sudden turn of events; but, dwellers in the moment that they are, they couldn't be happier -- more time with the people they love! We humans are alone with our thoughts, as ever. Well, thinking about the plague isn't going to change anything. Why not go for a walk? You never know what you may come across as you fare through the World.
The Mayo Tao
I have abandoned the dream kitchens for a low fire
and a prescriptive
literature of the spirit.
A storm snores on the desolate sea.
The nearest shop is four miles away.
When I walk there
through the shambles of the morning
for tea and firelighters,
the mountain paces me
in a snow-lit silence.
My days are spent in conversation
with stags and blackbirds;
at night fox and badger
gather at my door.
I have stood for hours watching
a salmon doze
in the tea-gold dark,
for weeks watching a spider weave
in a pale light, for months
listening to the sob-story
of a stone on the road --
the best, most monotonous
sob-story I have ever heard.
I am an expert on frost crystals
and the silence of crickets,
a confidant of the stinking shore,
the stars in the mud.
(There is an immanence in these things
which drives me, despite
my scepticism, almost
to the point of speech --
like sunlight cleaving
the lake mist at morning
or when tepid water runs cold at last from the tap.)
I have been working for years
on a four-line poem
about the life of a leaf.
I think it may come out right this winter.
Derek Mahon, Poems 1962-1978 (Oxford University Press 1979).
James McIntosh Patrick (1907-1998), "Springtime in Eskdale" (1935)