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On the Fifth Sunday of Lock Down we gather remotely by Zoom and phone a gallery of faces and voices shining from those little spaces on the screen.
Carefully we take this story, as if our lives depend on it, sharing, breaking, devouring it, gathering the pieces as if in our hands.
Glancing through the window to the garden I see a thrush in the rosebush dead, its wings spread out, pinioned among the thorns.
Later I go out to cut it down and find it is an old body, feathers and bone, dropped or blown into the tree.
- Andy Delmege
