Monday, February 14, 2005

...and dances with the daffodils

I came to London in Spring, so this is my third the city. Spring in London to me will always mean daffodils - everywhere - wild in clumps of riotous yellow, defiantly beautiful in the tired greyness that is the defining colour of this metropolis.

Here and there are patches of different colours...Chelsea, where I am now, is dazzlingly white - bright new spring sunlight reflecting off freshly painted walls. Some of the outer suburbs...the terraces...seem brown from the endless rows of houses that share walls and facades and a street in seceeding monotony.

The moment one steps outside London, of course, everything is green...the lush English countryside positively invades everything man-made that is tentatively placed in it's bosom...vines and creepers and grasses waging endless wars with masonry and cement.

I love the seasons. I love seeing them. They hurry me along and remind me that another handful of months of my life have gone by. They act as an anchor to memories of a year, two years ago when the streets and the sky looked the same and my life, my frame of mind, my expectations were so different.

Spring is traditionally a time of renewal, reinvigoration and respite after the brutality of winter. This spring, I'm reminded of all the things London can give and all the things it can take away - swiftly, without feeling or favour. In that way, the city is as brutal as nature itself. It makes me realise more than ever the importance of shelter and home to us fragile humans.


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