What a year it has been.

I walked through the wetlands of the Camargue National Park, a haven for bird life, especially the iconic and astonishingly beautiful, graceful Phoenicopterus ruber roseos – pink flamingoes. A week later, on 6th March, my husband and I began the long drive back home through France, to Cherbourg and the overnight ferry to Ireland. French radio and newspapers were reporting a new, highly infectious strain of coronavirus which had been detected in France. We were advised to wash our hands frequently and to keep a social distance from others to prevent the infection spreading. 
We stopped in Mâcon. The Rhône was a mirror, reflecting the buildings along the quays. It was a memorable image of tranquillity. The local newspaper, Le Journal de Saône et Loire, reported two cases of the virus in the city. We washed our hands and went to dinner in a restaurant. For the first time, I noted the distance between the tables. 
Reports of the virus spreading in France, and in the UK and Ireland as well, accompanied us all the way to Cherbourg. We spent most of our time on the ferry in our cabin, going on to the deck from time to time for sea air and exercise, but avoiding the communal areas. 
Two weeks after we got home, the UK and Ireland began a lockdown. The virus now had a name, Covid-19. 
I made masks from vacuum cleaner bags and socks.
We stood with our neighbours to applaud the valiant NHS.
We rode our bicycles along almost silent city roads.
Birds sang vigorously, exuberantly, in the clear air. 
It was Spring. Belfast parks and gardens were awash with blossom. It was possible to forget for a while the awful death toll, the patients struggling to breathe, the job losses, the people trapped in apartments with no outside space.
This first lockdown lasted fourteen weeks. By then it was summer. We had some respite from the restrictions. We played golf. Met with relatives and neighbours outdoors. We swam in the sea. Infection rates were falling, fewer of those infected were dying. We felt optimistic.
A year later, and we have been back in lockdown since the New Year. Spring is more subdued this year. There is more traffic, despite the lockdown. Birdsong is less piercingly sweet than last year. February was wet and cold. We are almost a week into March, and it’s still cold, and wet.
A poem by the late Derek Mahon comes to mind. This is the first verse of "Spring in Belfast": 

"Walking among my own this windy morning
In a tide of sunlight between shower and shower,
I renew my old conspiracy with the wet
Stone and the unwieldy images of the squinting heart.
Once more, as before, I remember not to forget."

I put on my mask to go to the shops. I buy tulips and daffodils.