Some days, most days in fact, someone else says it better.
No blessed Charles here, but with the lack of aeroplanes and traffic, the birdsong is all that’s carried on the air (side note: where are all the children playing? I know we aren’t the only family living here). My garden, my sanctuary, my gilded prison. But I have sky, and my mind’s eye. And an English teacher who told me I’d be glad to have studied the great poets when I was older.