And the white knight is talking backwards
It was during that flat time between Christmas and New Year, four days reminiscent of lockdown, that I revisited an abandoned habit. Wending away an afternoon driving through the villages of my childhood: Great Glen, Fleckney, Kibworth, Foxton, Saddington, Burton Overy. Legally now but in lockdown I always had an eye on the rear view mirror looking out for a blue flashing light. I suspected the police might check car number plates at random and would pull over anyone driving a vehicle registered at an address outside of Leicester city limits. Today it was different. I could sit on a bench, if I chose to, on the village green. Signs littering the villages demanding: "SLOW DOWN FOR COVID" had disappeared and villagers never gave me a second glance as opposed to a scrutinising stare and an interrogative stance. As I recollected how things once were I realized I should put together some of my lockdown poems. Especially since I was bored having just finished Project Forest, which this collection is named after.
Project Forest had been months of work turning my living room into a forest for the bears*. My own subtle lockdown statement or perhaps surrealistic pillow. I think I may have to get a White Rabbit for my forest.
* My house is full of bears. People sometimes ask if I collect them. I don't, it's more accurate to say they arrive.