The pandemic’s lockdown rules having been eased

we crossed the border into Wales to visit

our favourite country seat, on a late autumn’s

sunny day, cold and dry. The car park

was almost empty – and the main yard,

where the hay loft was and the saw pit,

entirely so except, this being

close to Christmas, Bing Crosby, disembodied,

singing ‘We Three Kings…’ Out in the gardens

two mothers and four infants cheerily

followed the Peter Rabbit Winter Trail,

running to find Lily Bobtail, Tommy Brock,

then Squirrel Nutkin. Rooks gathered in the limes,

and a magpie crossed the lake loud with mallards.

In one of the borders orange flowers

were still blooming – alstroemeria,

Lily of the Incas – and in another

an ornamental banana tree burgeoned,

testament to the earth’s slow burning.

The sky was filling with cumulus clouds

whiter than snow, drifting slowly from the north,

as we returned to the yard where Bing

was still singing of the Magi, a journey,

and a star. The late afternoon was full

of innocence and design, theology

and intimations, children, obligations.

We left, careful on the winding lanes,

wondering if Peter Rabbit had been found.