I sit on a patch of grass in Hyde Park: plunged in a pool of memories. They are new borne. They are big like the sky above my head.
I jump from my afternoon bath in search of pad and pen, dripping bits of it across a new tiled floor – to the softness of wool in my room.
It’s too cold for August: gusts catch nervous brollies pointed at dingy clouds, now in retreat.
My hair’s wet and my arms are cold.
Back in the bubbles: a stream of urgent pictures captioned in my head.
The rain shower’s petered out and I stare at the oak tree. Leaves blow and rustle and seem to tempt thoughts from me.
I dry my skin, then lather on body butter. Plumped in goose down, I scurry back to the damp grass that’s slowly soaking into my clothes. I shiver. The traffic noise hums from Bayswater Road. A suited man walks past with an oversized poster tube lodged under one arm. A pouting woman walks her small dog dressed in designer fuchsia. Already leaves are falling. Hairs on my bare forearms are standing on end.
Pick up my tea and read over my words.
Another person jogs, another on a mobile, another stops nearby to take a picture. I gather some dried leaves and a twig and stuff them into my pocket. Too cold to sit any longer I stroll into the Serpentine Gallery, awash with flowers: memories trailing behind me.