All seems good.

All seems good.

Even the A/C seems to be behaving itself, thankfully.

London lies serene

From a bench

At the top of Parliament Hill

It flows away into the distance

A jumble of shapes and sizes

On a human scale

With an occasional giant

Wading through the shallows

So many stories whispered on the wind

We heard them

Beseeching, screeching

Ghostly moaning

In the gloaming of Highgate

With Carl Marx

Cutting a rug as a figurehead

His monument is

Head and shoulders higher

Than the rest

A philosopher’s stone

A little to one side

Leaning to the left

Of centre

We climbed the hill

Together

Joining a queue to sit

Holding hands

Dreaming of something

Greater than ourselves

With so many others

The air hummed

With the distant noise

Of a city

Never silenced

A magical voice

Of many tongues

And like so many before us

We wished the moment

Would last forever

Later, standing in Keats Grove

We kissed

Is it a wallow in melancholy

To reflect on it now

In absence

When the memory of it

Is burned so deeply

Into my psyche

London reveries

Whisper through the airwaves

They carry me away

Right back to the bench

At the top of the hill

When the world stretched

Before us

Into the future

From where I sit

The beauty we were facing

Never died

It just moved on.