Seen from the bus (not today) on Kensington, a man in a cream kurta (long shirt) with matching cap, white embroidered, cradling in his arm a bundle, the white points of which must be sharp, as he twice tries to rest this end of the bundle in his palm then quickly shifts it up. A… Continue reading Featherlies
Midsummer
Did you ever wonder how the fairies and lovers could, semi-dressed, spend the night in a woods in the third week of June in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream? After three Mays in England, I can explain how June can be mid-summer. Of the four warm sunny days that occur each year, two fall before… Continue reading Midsummer
Cruella Deville
The half hour before the park closes. Nearly empty of people. At the outdoor cafe, a streetperson, dressed in black, zipping his black bag. The white police van slowly making its way to the far gate. Lovers oblivious to time. Dogs leashed and led away. Peacocks parading loose, the males in full colour. Yesterday one… Continue reading Cruella Deville
Unfurling Spring
Is it hunger that makes me see magnolia blossoms as semi-stirred cherry yoghurt, and pink almond blossoms as candy floss? And what's this ahead, forcing us to cross the road? A group of middle-aged people are gathered on the sidewalk in front of a building under scaffolding. (Construction carries on through the winter here.) Short… Continue reading Unfurling Spring
Mud and Fashion
In the field that was a pond two weeks ago, two boys play football (soccer to Canadians). The blonde one slides on the mud, falls onto his back. He laughs and rolls from side to side in the mud, swishing his arms. Like a child making snow angels. Like the dog scratching her back in… Continue reading Mud and Fashion
Lupercalia
After sunset, wind rants along the street, kicking newspapers and plastic bags ahead of it, snapping branches down. Into the lamplight hurry suited young men clutching flowers to their chests. Outside a restaurant a man in a car hurls words at a delivery man standing on the sidewalk, "Move your fucking bike, man."
Errands
Out in the rain running errands, I pass a street person shivering in grey sweats, his palms pressed between his knees. I go into the Starbucks next door and buy a big cup of tea, lash it liberally with milk and sugar, and take it out to him. I proffer him the cup. He shakes… Continue reading Errands
Reprieve
Tube strike from Tuesday evening through to Friday morning. Water causes natural disasters in areas away from London. The South Downs flooded. A rail line washed away in Dawlish on the south coast of Devon. On Wednesday it rained sideways. Yesterday in the park in the straight downpouring rain, empty of nannies and children, a… Continue reading Reprieve
Marking time
Flat rectangular espaliers trap trees onto music stands, their brown leaves notes. Morning sun reveals green fur on the temporary structures of the construction site. Green psoriasis proves that the new roof on the design museum is copper. The Kyoto Garden in Holland Park is forbidden to dogs. Because forbidden, I peer over the hedge… Continue reading Marking time
Street Candy
Ahead of me, a traffic warden in his nasturtium-orange rainwear walks beside a construction worker, his rain pants and vest the colour of an almost ripe lemon. The colours of candy, of a PEZ, of a sweet and sour. Slow in their boots, shoulders touching, they turn out of the rain into the organic coffee… Continue reading Street Candy
Rain Shot
White gulls strewn midfield. Around its periphery run boys in burgundy jerseys and navy shorts. Bulked in layered clothing, hunched away from the mud, I pause, waiting for the oval line of boys to warp, waiting for a boy's dash at the birds. When it comes, the whoops of the boys and the calls of… Continue reading Rain Shot
Sounds
Sounds of Spring in London. The leafblower replaced by the handheld pressurized water cleaner, cleaning slippery green off sidewalks. Birds turning up the volume, showing off. The clop clop of the hooves of the police horses soft under the jackhammering at the construction site. The park gardeners pause in their leaf-gathering to look at the… Continue reading Sounds
Kensington Gardens
There are 242 acres of Kensington Gardens. Surely a dead squirrel in all that grass would be a needle in a haystack? The dog found the stiff and peed on it. Which I told to the woman who later petted the dog wearing her black leather gloves, asking if the dog was a good girl.… Continue reading Kensington Gardens
Moss
In a January melt in Ottawa there would be sleeves of ice on tree trunks and ice varnishing sidewalk edges. After a winter of rain in London, moss slicks the bottom of walls and walk edgings, and adheres to tree trunks in a bright green, almost fluorescent. Not the deep soft green of moss growing… Continue reading Moss
Bone white
A small branch stripped of bark gleams in the grey air. Bone-white, I think. And retract the thought. The prominence of my own bones, and spinal osteoporosis, moves the word bone out of the interior designer's catalogue and into the undertaker's. Bone has lost its innocence for me. At the top of the bare tree… Continue reading Bone white
Food Fight
Stopped a moment in Kensington Gardens to enjoy a rare patch of sunshine, I hear the squee sound that a dog's chew toy makes. Ears direct eyes upward. Six parakeets fly around the top of a tall plane tree. Just as I marvel at the beauty -- bright green birds, grey tree, blue sky --… Continue reading Food Fight
At the Cafe
A tall couple have no time to waste, pushing past me as I wait in front of the Wait to be Seated sign. He is tall and thin and of an age to have known post-war food rationing. She is blonde and looks like him, thin and sharp-nosed, and younger, possibly his daughter. When I… Continue reading At the Cafe
January
Brown fronds folded down shawl a palm tree.
Battle Positions
In the crowded tube, my back to the person nearest me, aware that I am part of a circle of backs whose owners face outward, as if expecting attack. Like the battle positions you see in movies, from the wagon train circle to the embattled dwarves in The Hobbit: the Desolation of Smaug.
DEBRA MARTENS 