Part 1 of the journey

The buddleia flowers,
leaves tipped silver
by the breeze
girl in pink runs her thumb over the window
whistling, aimlessly.
Another child stands, stretching a finger,drawing over half the large window.
I suspect you could havea fog centred holiday
this week
in west wales
rather than sunsets through scraper canyons.

Rosebay rosebay rosebay willow herb
thrashing pink
you’re just trying to make me happyI’m not happy.

It’s all knives and forks to me
with delicate lace work.

Part 2 of the journey

Some fields in Wiltshire still have red puddles of poppies.The lad behind me talks of playing poker until 4 a.m. this morning (I think he won £28). And one of their number turns out to have been a professional poker player for 6 months, including 2 months in vegas.I have seen giant hogweed.
There Leicester Square tube
Sort of natural but I knew it wasn’t someone coming up/down the escalators as the volume never changed. Then there he was: a blind man in a white t-shirt, his official busker id around his neck, whistling. White stick stood in a buff washing up bowl for change.The whistling was lovely, it made me smile, one of the best busking experiences I’ve had (perhaps second to the Quebecois folk singer in Montreal). I could still hear it on the platform. No instruments no amplification.Muddy puddle ducklings.Back seizes up mid tube change, grind to a halt.
I know I’m in a different country, people still smoking in pubs. Yuk!

Part 3 of the journey
The last sunset before the planet tilts back towards winter.

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