In the bush I lower my mask to my chin
and breathe in
the intelligence of eucalypt and damp earth.
I pass people out walking,
hear snippets of their conversations:
it was negative, then positive . . .
maybe it’s a false sense of security . . .
when we get back to normal . . .
And I think
there’ll be no going back
on the wings of nostalgia
to a brighter simple past.
Its tense was always imperfect.
It’s a past that got us to where we are now
all masked up
and waiting for the symptoms to appear.
It was never okay to destroy habitat
though it was normal.
The view from the hill
looks post-card pretty
the river calm, a drifting craft
drawing a middle line along the liquid grey.
Down there in the buildings
people are getting on with things,
back at work or sorting through a list
of New Year house and garden jobs,
trying to keep risk at bay.
I keep walking.
Up ahead there’s a man with two dogs.
As I approach
he hooks them onto leads.
Rules are rules he says.
And I think
about how rules
can make people rebellious,
me included – though so far
in this pandemic I’m willing to comply.
I keep walking.
Suddenly
just behind me
a rock tumbles down the hill.
My body picks up speed
to move out of its way.
And I think
how it sounded like a runner
coming too close.
Anne Collins writes poetry and non-fiction. Her fifth and most recent book titled ‘How to Belong’ was published in 2019. Her work has also been published in literary journals in Australia and internationally.
