Covid Morning 2000

I think I have been woken by the silence.

It’s not quite five-thirty and it is just getting light. Soon the morning chorus may start, but so far all I can hear is very faint rhythmical breathing from the other side of the bed.

I pad quietly into the bathroom. A floorboard creaks. It is like a scream, much the loudest noise so far. I slip on a dressing gown and brush my teeth as quietly as I can.

Now I’m creeping downstairs, avoiding the third tread which would utter a wood-groan.  In the kitchen, Bagheera stretches himself awake, anticipating an early feed. I succumb, then take a mug of tea through into the night-cool conservatory.

The dawn is breaking behind the apple tree, coaxing the garden out of its gloom. Bagheera joins me, rubbing against my bare leg.

Together we watch the first birds appear. A thrush probes for worms on the lawn. A great tit on the bird feeder spills a cascade of seeds.

The silence is extraordinary. A few bars of quiet birdsong. Then nothing. Even Bagheera is silent, his purr withheld. And there’s not a breath of wind. It is as if the weather doesn’t dare make a sound, either.

Less than a mile away the dual carriageway would normally be producing a steady hum of traffic, so constant it can masquerade as tinnitus. Even at this hour lorries would be making their relentless progress toward depots and loading bays. But not this morning. Not for many mornings past. Nor are there any cars on the B-road just a few field-hedges away.

Through the tiffany mist the horizon is promising a pastel spectacular and I wait to hear the swelling orchestra of hidden birds. Bagheera pleads to be freed among them: I read his look but do not acquiesce.

These days of isolation will pass and we will get back to something they already have a name for: a new normal. We will greet friends, hug grandchildren, browse among throngs in galleries… There’s much to look forward to.

But for now, Bagheera and I sit there gazing out, straining at the glorious silence.