It was nearly Easter 2020. The door of our church was locked. We set up our crosses on the verges, in the meadows, at the ends of lanes, emerging from hedges, up and down our valley. We adorned them with all the resurrection life we could find, undaunted daffodils, enduring ivy, triumphing tulips, reckless flowering current, prim primroses and wanton cowslips. The sky was blue, the sun shone and we rejoiced.
I climb my forest path, above a patchwork of oats and wild flowers, on the hillside honeysuckle, willow, Scots Pine. I hear a sudden soft breaking. Halted, I see The Wizard of the Forest, tufted ears, eyes the colour of sand. The Lynx looks at me, I look at him.