I wonder if you think of me when you see the pigeons washing in the font. The water reminds me of the mire of your words that day - sudden cold claims sold with your usual warmth. Your feeble script splashing with goodbyes and feathers and shit. I walked to see the swans where we used to meet. Those familiar steps felt as sad as they did mellifluous in cadence with the laughter, cries and calls of a sunny September Sunday in Clissold Park. The swans weren’t there when I reached the pond. Only a young heron. I watched as the feathers on its delicate, open throat glimmered in the morning light.
So many corners of London have decades of memories for me but Clissold isn't one of them even though my first house in London was 2 mins walk away. Trying to visualise what different places mean for different people, the thoughts as they march past in their way to work, pass by on the top deck of the bus or ponder from further afield. The mind map of energy from all those different thoughts is surely enough to power us all onwards this Blue Monday.