Lockdown diary #4: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
– Shakespeare: The Tempest (V.i.88-94)

As with so much horticultural minutiae, it was Felix – still not yet accustomed to having the run of the garden (or – as he must see it – patrolling ‘his’ domain) – who first spotted the tiny creature, and then alerted me (his unrealized chaperon) to its hovering presence; swiftly (and coincidentally) followed by The Guardian’s consistently high-quality Country diary column. I say “tiny”… – but the “creature” in question has a big name in so many respects: “Bombylius major, the large or dark-edged bee‑fly”. Nevertheless, it is small. Yet another of nature’s brilliant and beautiful works of precision engineering, and perfect, startling, purpose. [Bee-flies are sometimes called “humble-flies”. But never, sadly, “humble-bees”… – an eponym reserved for bumble-bees: who, if their buzz (or hum) is anything to go by, are actually quite assertive!]

Lockdown diary #3: You are never parted in the beating of your heart…

As is so often the case, the body was in virtually flawless condition: the only clue as to its demise the dull eye (ordinarily… extra-ordinarily brilliant yet pale with cheeky inquisitiveness and intelligence) hanging loosely from its socket – seemingly beseeching me for help that could never come. Even two days later – when no-one, no-thing, had been to claim it: neither fox nor magpie; buzzard nor kite – it remained impeccably embalmed in its lignite sheen: and so I carefully gathered it from the verge – the weight in my hand remarkable for its lightness (as if the departure of its life-spark or soul had rendered it hollow) – and laid it carefully in its temporary resting place. Normally, we would have buried it in a quiet spot in the garden. But times are not normal: so I swaddled it, instead – muttering a few thoughts of ritual respect and regret… – in a large workaday carrier bag; and then placed it, heartbreakingly, in our green council compost bin.

Lockdown diary #2: Spare your arithmetic, never count the turns…

And then – suddenly; startlingly; steadfastly… – it is Sunday. The chilling, seemingly fixed north-north-easterly – ferrying in yet one more ferocious (but not this time vacuous) official foreboding of its own, in the form of a frigid wind-speed alert… – seemingly purifying the pavement of all pedestrians. All the silver/grey/black cars, however, immune to its volitions, are stationary: as they still – thankfully – remain locked to their owners’ homes – many warmed with the rainbows and soft toys that demonstrate love, hope, and temporary happiness. [Andrà tutto bene. “All will be fine.” (We wish. Fervently.)]

The cooling breeze – the cooling day – it brings is concretely cleaner; and, as I circumambulate the churchyard (the building at its heart now closed even to such prayer), I launch my atheist’s supplication quietly upstream: craving continuing clarity, and everlasting expanded green spaces to breathe within. At the exact instant I traverse the main, southern entrance, the air resonates with the midday chimes. I feel blessed. Perhaps this presages something. But… – and I hesitate…. Benevolent… or… the other kind…?

I choose the former; and ramble onwards.

Lockdown diary #1: By St Mary’s churchyard, I sat down and wept…

Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Think’st thou that I, who saw the face of God
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?
– Christopher Marlowe: Doctor Faustus (Scene III)

Every day is Sunday now. Lawnmowers hum in the low sun like the reinvigorated bees that surround them, joyous in the warm spring light. Pelotons of mouthy mamils speed perilously through the village, leaning inattentively around busy, sometimes blind bends. Small happy huddles of prattling people descend from the windmill in their mudsome wellies. And yet a peculiar – (mostly) car free? – silence presses sharply on my eardrums more painfully than any aeronautic descent. This time it is my mind – my soul – tumbling rapidly (once more) towards perdition.

Felix the flopsicle cat…

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?

Felix the flopsicle cat loves…
rolling around whilst the brush licks his fur;
leaving the ground to fight strings in the air;
chewing on catnip, and having a run… –
for no other reason that running is fun!
He’ll chomp at the pigeons, and poor blackbirds, too,
but takes pity on blue tits too small for the stew
he dreams of when sleepy, when conjuring mice
that he’d make disappear – gnash, gnash, gulp – in a trice!
(All this is pretend, I really should say:
for poor Felix is kept tight indoors every day:
not out of malice or anything spiteful
but to keep him happy and healthy and brightful!)

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?

Felix the affable cat loves…
cuddling close, and keeping me warm;
keeping his guard up, to save me from harm;
following me calmly, a paw from my heel,
knowing, sooner (not later), I’ll suddenly kneel
and pay him back gently with scratches and rubs,
crisp bikkits, moist foods, and all sorts of nice grubs… –
rewarded, in turn, with soft paws on my hand,
a lick of my nose, and a purr that’s so grand!
(All this is quite true, but much understated,
for good Felix has charms that are far from inflated:
so special, and loving, the most caring I’ve known… –
in touch with my feelings as much as his own!)

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – and
there is nothing as perfect as that!
There is nothing as perfect,
so utterly perfect, as
Felix the flopsicle, furrable,
Felix the affable, tabbicle,
Felix the magical cat!