Routine: constant, reassuring, boring, comforting, secure, meditative, a rock, a slippery slope? The chickens need tending to, feeding and watering. They rely on us. We rely on them. They don’t question, philosophize, worry about the future or the past. As far as we know anyway? Who are we to impose our science on them? I walk through the garden and listen to the birdsong but still can’t identify many calls, even though I’ve looked them up a dozen times; they don’t stick for some reason? Except for the rooks’ cackly calls; no mistaking them. All God’s creatures though I suppose? (or ‘whatever means the Good’ as Louis MacNeice described it). We have to take the harsh cackle of life along with the mellifluous warble I guess? I check on the hens: open the feed bin, fill up the trough, release the birds. I see how the buds are swelling on the newly-planted horse-chestnut tree our friends gave us, see how the tadpoles have grown, listen to the increasing volume of the dawn chorus as nature prepares for the coming season, smell the cool, fresh air and look up to the clear, blue sky, empty of aircraft trails at the moment. Everything on ‘lockdown’: that clanky, metallic, awful word that speaks of chains, iron, locks, heavy hinges and restraint. Doesn’t feel like that here, but we’re very lucky, not like some, like an awful lot in fact. Everything on hold. Except for the hens, for the garden, for nature, for now.

Listen here: (headphones recommended)