the brollies and the wellies,
greens, parks, squares, and closes,
rain mist so fine you won’t need that facial appointment,
(nor the aforementioned brolly),
because the sun will be shining soon enough.
just wait. (and we/they do.)
a ten-minute, guilt-free visit to the tate, and the modern,
saying hello giacometti and a nod to pollock,
eyes filling with the remnants of architectural epochs
while strolling across the bridges,
blackfriars, millennium, waterloo, london, and the rest.
walking. twenty minutes in either direction offers entry
into different worlds. budding gardeners, ballerinas, and
mysterious, magical storytellers in twickenham; just down
the road from the gardens, kew and park, richmond;
celebratory ubiquity of horticultural penchants —
in the yard, in a palace, ’round the corner, on a bus.
playgrounds, swings, slides, toy soldiers,
midday snacks, secret passages, midday pints and half pints,
before or after long walks
hither, elsewhere, and everywhere in between.
walking, with abandon.
trains that transport passengers to another time,
the new built into standing memories of the old,
making “now” a mere accident of colliding timescales.
slipping into and out of high streets, creaky corners,
one step towards colonized delicacies,
another in the direction of heights of fusion.
busy, car-free streets,
irony as a default position,
questions out loud, causing discomfort or otherwise,
free to be you and me
(not the usual politics of identity;
a whole new set to ponder — refreshing, frustrating)
(the denouement has begun.)