The daffodils are gone but the world is still yellow, with buttercups.
For the first time since lockdown we find the park strewn with rubbish. The bins overflowing, the grass dotted with plastic packaging, chippie papers, tin cans.
We see the heron, of course. Always in a slightly different spot. He must see this place from every angle and perspective.
As for us, we vary our route but it’s the same footpaths, the same fields and gates and river. The same day, on repeat.
We double check what day it is, what week number, as if they can no longer be differentiated
But I think of the words my friend Libby sometimes quotes, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”
Our perspective changes. We see a new angle. It is better. It is worse.
We are generous in how we view others, and then we are not.
We get used to things. They change again.
We are accepting and content. We count our blessings. We take it day at a time.
We are suspicious and outraged, we measure and compare. We are afraid of days to come.
We pay attention to any strange gifts this time has given. We note which cancellations made us feel lighter, freer. We know, now, what we do not miss. And what we do. We vow to choose more wisely, “when all this is over.”
Outside of our control to choose, though, the river journeys on. The landscape has shifted. Some things will not return.
The daffodils are gone but the world is still yellow.
I wonder where the heron will be hiding today?