This third lockdown in England has been the hardest by far. January, like the river here in Cornwall, has dragged its way through a smothering of mist with no end in sight.
So many have died. So many alone. So many hearts shattered in the unfathomable depths of the unspeakable loss. It hangs in the air, and clings by our side. All those that we miss.
No water. No sky. The mere trace of hills. Yet the boats they still show the river is there. Out there yonder – with everything else. Merely hidden in this suspended time.
Time that will, one day, bid its own farewell. Time that will, one day, return us back to ourselves.
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