I sit on a patch of grass in Hyde Park: plunged in a pool of memories. They are new borne. They are big like the sky above my head.
I jump from my afternoon bath in search of pad and pen, dripping bits of it across a new tiled floor – to the softness of wool in my room.
It’s too cold for August: gusts catch nervous brollies pointed at dingy clouds, now in retreat.
My hair’s wet and my arms are cold.
Back in the bubbles: a stream of urgent pictures captioned in my head.
The rain shower’s petered out and I stare at the oak tree. Leaves blow and rustle and seem to tempt thoughts from me.
I dry my skin, then lather on body butter. Plumped in goose down, I scurry back to the damp grass that’s slowly soaking into my clothes. I shiver. The traffic noise…
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