Reading Albert Camus' How To Survive A Plague Poem by Bernard Kennedy

Looking at a foto of Waterford City, of 1919, I see the windows open in the grandfathers house on the Mall, his pharmacy, there was a plague then too.
Air was thought remedy and for TB later outdoors was the cure.
And Camus, whose book The Plague now resells forty years after its writing gives air space a hope in covid times.
Our lockdownhas reintroduced
Proust, a la recherche du temps perdu,
and Stendhal with The Red and the Black,

and Albert Camus, saint of relevance.Catholics pray to saints and these have spun the days in hope.
That's what happens in intercession- hope is given.
Take the air, do not fear. This too will pass.

So I take the air and walk to church gates, turn left, and walk
Knocksink road, the odd 'how are you', from couples,
the green valley of sycamores and ferns and pathways, the bridge on the river,
the woods across the road, the father cycling,
with children in a cabin behind his bike,
thrilled with happiness in the spin,
giggling and laughing.

The ribbed leaves on the Spring sycamore,
and wild fuschia setting the ivy barks aglow.
I social distance and keep the metres.
When I was young I walked the Whitechurch road,
with my father, the sycamore too stood well strong
like a watchman, and wild roses ran the hedgerows,
and prunus spinosa, or sloe, blackthorn,
set the greenery off with its purple color and sour taste.

The sunday walk, like this Covid 19 sunday, recherche le temps perdu,
on Camus advice to doctors in a plague to take the air.