Observations on an Early Morning Walk: 1

An early constitutional as the sky merges from night into dusky lilac.

Another “CD” may well have trod these same steps, over a century ago,

Languishing within this giant, multi-faceted muse...

These are the hours she merely dozes, with pockets of life bustling behind the City's stirring streets.

A woman shares my journey, at times.

A cane propels her heavy weight, which, I feel, ages her prematurely.

Tears fall from her eyes – but not in expression of sorrow or joy,

But the effect of the icy February winds that chase through the buildings.

It seems too early in the day, and the year, for local cafes to set up for al fresco diners.

It is optimistic.

Several bars and restaurants are in the cleaning process from last night’s jovialities. 

Outside one, a half-clean smear of vomit is deftly averted...

Breaking the silence, a chesty cough from a man wearing a white beard and red jacket.

‘Pere Noel’ this is not.

He calls to us two identical women: 

“Did you like it luv?!”

Who?  Us?  ’Like’ what?

“Yes thanks...!” I bat back, adding:  “Get that cough checked out!”

His hearty laugh fades as I mutter: 

“Nutty bastard....”

And again, I think of Dickens.

A huge glass-topped building meets me around a corner, arousing curiosity.

The working-man’s morning-song trills throughout.

Men in white coats, white hats, white shoes, white trousers

Push and pull heavy cargoes of corpses all over

A place of so much life and so much death.

It is no place for the sensitive vegetarian, I surmise.

But this thought will not affect its 800-year history;

Deals are made, notes exchanged and hands are shaken.
Just as it always was.

Back outside, herds of smartened City visitors move towards offices or relax inside cafes.

The word “morning” is sung in a variety of notes exactly twelve times before I seek refreshment.

When sated, I grab my cane and head homeward through the diamonds and Leather.

Observations on an Early Morning Walk: 2

Farringdon homeward:

Bleeding Heart Yard

It is 7am and the Diamond District still slumbers.

A long street of priceless, twinkling storefronts with its eyes closed

(or else I'm blindly staring into Aladdin’s empty cave).

Across, and through to Leather Lane,

Market traders stir and begin to display their colourful jewels

Of shining Golden Delicious and such.

A lane trimmed with eateries to suit every wallet and tastebud.

Other storefronts force me to stop and eye their windows’ wares.

A reflection of Middle-Eastern traders playing with remnants of day-old snow,

Firing at each other and laughing like children.

At Clerkenwell Road, two golden gerberas purchased, to brighten my home.

A smiling Belisha beacon earns a returned smile -

Energising me for the final stretch.

The Tunnel

A voice on the radio had said that it was the hottest day in decades.  However, tearing down this tunnelled path of horse-chestnut trees, Sarah became more aware of the hard goose-bumps on her bare arms.

Suddenly, she stopped, as if a sharp voice had called her.  Sarah paused and looked up at the small spots of sunlight fighting through the spanned leaves, looking like stars.  Was she searching for inspiration?  Or strength?

With feigned courage, as if to confront someone who was actually there, Sarah slowly turned around.

All she saw was her childhood home.  Brooding - yet somehow promising warmth.  Or, more accurately, promising warmth, but actually more brooding and sinister.

As hard as the house had tried to entice her back, the pull of another fate was greater.  With a resolute sigh, she turned back round and faced the other end of the narrow lane.  It was a long walk yet.  She wondered if she might struggle again.  But there was no going back, not now.   

Whilst musing on this, her feet - knowing  she was stalling - and had taken firm and sure steps almost before she had realised.

A few steps on, and her mental peace was again disrupted by ingrained voices, full of hate and negativity.  If the house could not drag her back, then perhaps these cold, critical voices could weigh her down and force her into submission.  Although initially dismissive, they grew, until Sarah fought through an onslaught of tears, until, finally, losing self-awareness, she dropped to her knees and clawed at the dry dirt, digging an oubliette.  Eyes squeezed tightly, she sobbed in the dark, alone, as she had, many times before.

A soft voice spoke out of the gloom.  If she went back now, no-one need ever know she’d left - or about the shame she’d feel for returning.  And it’s certainly less scary than whatever was beyond that sunlit road.  There’s a familiar, twisted comfort in that miserable existence.  Were things really that bad?  Could she really have brought this all on herself, like they’d said?  And, could she fix it herself, by conforming, by being whatever they wanted her to be?

Eventually, Sarah opened her eyes and looked up again at the light beaming through the leaves.  Their glow was slightly dimmer now.  Time was running out. 

With her hair mussed and face messed with tears wiped by dirtied hands, Sarah sighed calmly.  She her head to her right, to the bright end of the path - the unknown.  The sight of it forced her into action.  Wiping her hands on her thighs and her hair off her face, she sniffed.  Glancing to her left, at the house, she stood and marched defiantly away from it, without looking back.

The voices diminished completely.  The house faded into mere memory.

Whatever was at the other end, however life would be - Sarah had taken control; she had taken the necessary, brave steps to leave it all behind.