As a child of the winter sun, spring ceases to move me. I find the sun too hot, too bright, and too exhausting. It probably has something to do with my pale complexion and ginger disposition, but I digress. When I sat down to write the following words, I contemplated just how I was going to muster up poetic prose on this season.

But then I thought. I thought about the quiet magic that spring brings to London. The hidden treasures that London has to offer, under the heat. There is more to spring time here than simply being out in the sun. It is the cool, early morning sitting by the Tem’s, listening to the river drift by, lulling you into a static contentment. It is an evening among pals at Victoria Park, laughing until dawn.

It is all the wonderful, overseen moments shared within a city, within a group of friends, and within yourself.


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Ticking hands, forged of great Autumn oak, begins it’s slow march towards the light. Children sit underneath,

Ears pressed against frosted glass,

Waiting for the bell to toll.


Waiting to lift a snowy veil,

Holding them prisoner to

A landscape left barren in desolation.


They sing hymns of protest,

Begging the goddess of

Floral and fauna

Begging the goddess to begin,

Her slow climb beneath the frozen

dirt , leaves, rocks


To surface once again,

Stretch out the weeping willows

Of her hair.


Waiting to feel the rustling,

Of a cool river water of

Her tears.


Slowly, the hands inch

Growing nearer, and nearer,

Taking a journey

Reveal to wondering eyes

What the cold months of

Shadow have hidden


They wait.

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Winter offers an ominous peace to the our neighbours.

It slows us down, making a retreat to warmth such better priority.

The streets are silent, save for the gentle humming of quiet beings milling about.
It is giving rest to a sun so garish to some,
But essential to many.


Until, the rains once again shift the city. We cry in unison – the music of the first amber lit sunrise – welcoming another chorus of spring:


Meadows of wild grass sing a harp’s chord,
A flash of floral garb, adorning temples of cellos
Passing trains, a thunderous percussion section.


The music sways from hungry ears,

Jazz honey beats with every step,

Of nights and neon signs illuminating

The night dwellers, hollowing to the cool, cool moon

Of Richmond.


The sun

Our grand maestro, conducting

Every new piece, as the dawn draws nearer,

As every flower begins to bloom.

Every dewy morning comes to pass.


The city is harmonious, once again.

Filling lungs,

Breathing the light of a gentle spring’s call.

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Waves of heat beat down on the exhausted citizens. The sun quickly becoming an mannerist masterpiece, reflecting an ethereal vulgarity. No longer charming. No longer needed to soothe the brittle bones left frozen of winter’s victims.


Stage lit – mirror image of a raven’s eye

Standing in front of you, of them,

Ready for an awakening,

To highlight the futility of a seasons passing.


The curtain begins to lift,

Taking with it an ivory veneer of a city,

Broken by the silent sufferings.
Centre stage remains active,

Creating sweet diversion to those

Stage left, stage right.

Standing on the corners, seeking out

The warmth of compassion

Seeking out, the humility from their neighbours.


For food, for kindness.


Spring has enveloped us once again.

Unearthing problems left to rest by winter’s breath.

It is time that carefully unwraps the grotesque nature,

Of quiet ignorance to duty.

Accompanied by the cries of misery,

And misunderstanding.


It is a time for reflection,

Of inner humility,

Blooming compassion,

Or carnal narcissism.

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Take the time to enjoy this season. Take the time to help out those in need. Those people who you know you see on the streets. Spring is full of beauty and suffering. Make it worth its beauty.