The sun is orange, no, golden.
April 2024
It nears 8pm in London.
People play music, play basketball and tennis, and ride their skateboards. The sun behind celestial mist colours the sky orange. The light turns gold as it envelops the leaves of a young birch overlooking this spectacle, perched on a small mount.
A mother with two kids stroll below, if kids could stroll. Dropping their football and skateboard, they launch themselves with a battle cry at the dandelions which mum pointed out to them. The elder presents her a cloud-like bouquet, and she pulls her phone out to take pictures. But her son is already onto the next thing.
He climbs the mount with his skateboard. Lying face front first, like a sled, he rattles down the gravelled path. Embracing chaos on his first attempt, he sports more elegance on his second. Now the younger, armoured with a blue helmet, wants a go. Mum steps in to delegate, but no, the elder declines such a moralistic trade.
Wild bird screeches.
Parakeets race their rounds above, as they have done for years in London, though no one seems to be quite sure since when. Where do they even come from?
There is more to this noise to the discerning ear. A little blue helmet screams and runs down the hill. He finally gets a go on the board. His brother took to climbing a tree.
So mum carefully offers a helping hand and holds the board half way up the path whilst he takes a seat. She points the way and he sets off. Smooth if slow sailing. The elder meanwhile climbs to six metres above ground, and receives a prized nod from hands-in-pockets dad. Mum pulls her shoulders up at this feat.
There are more relaxed park visitors in view, who now endure yet another scream. The littlest wants something, that much is clear. He catches the attention of dad, and sets off along the concrete path. He tries, he falls. Tries and falls. He falls off at the corner with every try.
With a bellow, the board flies up the mount. Solid throw. He follows it and, finally, the board and him, release down the path as one.
The golden birch leaves dance with the wind. Just behind the tree, the shadows of my scribbling pen flicker on the pages of my notebook. Skateboards click and clack, tennis rackets pop, a basketball thumps, the hoop rattles. Parakeets return and screech.
London, 8pm this Thursday.