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Conduit Wood, Richmond Park



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.

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