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St John's Wood Underground Station
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.