As I walk with the frost and moon a childhood memory recurs, as a breeze is captured by the trees, of how to think about the world, are my thoughts a fantasy? is the world out there a reality? Was my thinking wrong and reality out there right? I couldn't find a way to express these thoughts. I carried on wandering and wondering and dreaming. I left school and began work at a sweet age and learnt how to become a grown up.
Sheffield United are playing in London this weekend, I'm not sure where or with whom, so I wondered what the ecological cost of a football match might be, but I couldn't work that out. Both the ecological and economic cost seems huge. My thoughts drifted back to my childhood. I used to like playing games. We could play in the street or on the common or just find some waste ground to throw and kick a ball and run about. That seems a nicer way of having fun and enjoying life together.
1, 2, Agapanthus floppy and bedraggled in vibrant green, 3, 4, Fuchsia flowers, pinky red, lying on dark brown, nearly black, earth, 5, 6, Bay tree, small, a hundred dark green leaves, 7, 8, a smell of lemon, a mass of lemon-green leaves, got blown over in the winds on Monday night, 9, 10 the chrysanthemums, protected in the porch, a fleece tucked behind, waiting for a cold night. Steps to our front door.
A walk. From South Hampstead to West Hampstead. Holly, Honda, Cherry, Chrysler, Maple, Mercedes, Beech, Acacia, Hawthorn. Privet, privet, pavement, public, private, private. Paths that lead us away.
The Overground station, trains every 15 minutes to Richmond, one will be along in 7 minutes, a few minutes of gazing around M&S. Doors slide open in and out of shops, and onto the train, on my way.
A walk. Across the green, towards the river. I head towards the back streets, up the hill, head down, lost in my head.
The Park. Back to roots, soil, sand, leaves, twigs, mulch, greens and browns, roots of my languages, cultures and consciousness. Greyness darkening into clouds not far away. Body calming into a sense of being, sensing, nearly imperceptible.
A walk. Into a dream, I stumble, mumble, remember tumbling, giggling. I hesitate, linger, stop, stare, turn around, see the world upside down.
Still night. A blackbird sings in Berkeley Square, only waiting for this moment to arise. Moist quiescent air forming, shapes of dew, magnifying, reflecting, contemplating, this sense of you. A breath. A composition, composing, framing, hesitant, waiting, wondering. In this morning light, in this still of night.
Notebooks in my pocket, scarf around my neck, I step into the mist. A movement, 'our' Robin in the Silver Birch, a tweet, like 'good morning, how are you?'. Twigs glistening in the artificial light with dew drops from the overnight. Down the steps, hello potted plants, a landscape of greens, and here and there hints of colour still, purple, yellow. Turn Left. Each morning, out onto the quiet street, the harsh lighting soften by Cordyline, Yew and Lime. Over the railway tracks, whoosh, a train heading up North. Our station, South Hampstead, the entrance open, but no one on the platforms, everything waiting, shimmering in this quiet morning mist.