Imagination taking flight on the back step, the air filled with beating wings

SITTING on the back step of the Manor in early morning, looking out across the Rolling Acres. Stomach happily full after a decent breakfast, hands warmed by a mug of brown tea. Springtime retaining a cool edge sharpened on a thin wind. Dawn chorus subsiding into a day of white sky and dry ground.

Then from a distance came the discordant squabbling sound of a gaggle of geese. The noise swelled closer and the birds flew into view. Ah, they must be departing at last for Greenland, or Lapland, or Siberia, or wherever it is that they have their summer breeding grounds, I thought.

A dozen or so in number, they struggled overhead to form one of those neat military V-shaped formations which geese assume for long distance flight. Yet the continuing racket of squawks and cackles suggested that all was not well in the ranks.

The V-shape never quite came together and a couple of stroppy individuals refused to slot into place, peeling off from the group. Others at the tips of the ragged V could then be seen to hesitate before following suit and soon the lot of them were beetling back to the meadows where they spent the winter.

Clearly the consensus in the group was that the thin wind aforementioned had too much north in it to allow smooth progress to their Arctic homelands. Better to wait another day or two and stock up on a few more kilos of fortifying Irish grass before setting off for home on the back of a more favourable southerly.

I chuckled at the airborne drama of it and idly patted the Pooch as he snuggled up against my thigh for warmth and companionship. A robin came daringly close to where we sat, hopping on to a branch no more than a couple of metres from my nose. A tractor was kicked into throaty diesel-engined life a couple of fields away, ready to spread fertiliser on greedy grassland. The cat stalked along the roof of the garage, pretending to ignore the robin. The scene was so gloriously peaceful and picturesque and normal.

Normal! On a normal morning, I would not have the leisure to be swigging tea and waxing poetic about scenery at this hour. On a normal morning I would have headed off for work and the Pooch would be in solitary confinement in the run beside his kennel. On a normal morning, Hermione would already be beavering away in her office, while our Eldrick and young Persephone would be attending class.

Instead all normality has been banished by this awful lockdown, with no prospect of it being lifted any time soon.

The geese will be long migrated to distant shores before we see normal again.

We may become accustomed to leaving provisions outside the door of Her Majesty, the mother-in-law, cocooned in the solitary splendour of her royal palace. She waves at us cheerily across the moat as we make the delivery but all direct contact is forbidden.

We may become accustomed to having a trip to the supermarket as the highlight of the week. I find the plastic gloves provided by the store management entirely useless as they do not fit my large and gnarly hands.

We may become accustomed to swapping the latest covid19 jokes and videos circulating on social media. Among the pick of the crop so far is a report posted on the bridge club WhatsApp that God (no less!) has been spotted walking around Cork. He is approached by an awed local whose curiosity cannot be contained, asking why the great deity is in the neighbourhood. God replies simply: ‘I am working from home at the moment.’

YouTube is becoming my own favourite lockdown pastime. I recommend the clip with legendary songwriter Cole Porter performing his 1934 hit ‘You’re the Top’. And YouTube has movies as well as songs, I have discovered. I wonder if the Henry Fonda classic ‘ Twelve Angry Men’ is there – that would be well worth a look.

You know the story, don’t you? About the deliberations of jury in a murder trial. They start off their discussions 11 to 1 ready to send the hapless defendant to the gallows. But our Henry persuades them otherwise. Ha! Those geese were in ‘ Twelve Angry Men’ mode this morning. At altitude. With feathers.