Dear London…

10th October 2010

Geneva

Dear London,

I come to you through these means as I have no others at present with which to contact you.  I miss you dearly and count the days til which I will breathe in your misty haze once more.

This lake may be clear and beautiful; it may reflect the sun in a million colours and its facade may beg you to bathe within in, but it has nothing on the Thames, my dear London.  Nothing on its calming undulations, its ambiguity and knowledge.

The UN may be majestic and grand; fashioned with a million flags and framed with halls of marble that house many of importance, but it has nothing on our Parliament, dear London.  Nothing on our river bank, our clock tower or abbey.

The old town may be irksome and romantic, it may contain the ghost of our dear Shelleys and Byron, but it has nothing on our Southbank, dearest London, with all its history and charm with so much yet to discover.

The weather may be sunny and warm; the wind may blow freshly upon my glowing face, and the leaves may fall neatly onto the recently cleaned pavements, but it has nothing on your rain dear London, unique in its determination and persitance, nor does it have anything on your autumn, my favourite month of all where colours are vibrant and nothing is neat.

The bars may be chic, dear London; the cafes tres fantastique but they certaintly have nothing on our pubs or our pints and nothing on our gin filled delights.

And so you see, dearest London, as beautiful as the world may be outside, it has nothing on you, dear London, and therefore, nothing on me.

Yours faithfully and forever,

Loyal Londoner.

And so these insipid, irksome feelings
that sometimes strike me,
sometimes not
have haunted me of late.

They come and go
Picking and choosing, fooling me
into thinking I have let go.

The charge of these horses
gallop at me from disguised
and shrouded angles.
And I just never know when
it is they will show.

Aloof, I wonder past the dazzling
Gates of Friendship
Into this garden of beauty and spring.

I lay upon the grass, feeling
its soft, slippery spikes caress my
fingertips.

I walk among the flowers
In this garden of Friendship
I stroke the soft petals of secrets
and pluck at them to reveal
my destiny.

I count them, one by one
Unclothing them atop the blades of grass
I stop, and start anew.

I climb up onto the blossom 
tree branches, sit and dangle my legs
I climb ever further and lay upon the trees
Forgetting the world and hearing nothing
but the song of the birds
and the buzzing of the bees.

I clamber back down, carelessly
falling to reach the blossom covered ground.
I walk towards those dazzling gates
of Friendship
and turn for one last gaze.

In the hours that has passed
the grass had turned to hay,
quivering under my touch.

Flowers existed no more, plucked
by my undying desire to know.

The branches of the blossom tree
were bared as if
winter had blown its cruel breath upon it.

No birds were singing, 
no longer did bees buzz.

In the hours that had passed
since I first walked through the
dazzling gates of Friendship
all had died
and all was now quiet.

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teresagoncalves