Where do we go when it’s all over–this grand play we call life? All good things come to an end, that’s what they say, but what if it isn’t good, what happens then? Is there peace for the downtrodden? A place to rest their weary heads? If life is a tragedy, what is death? Can it be a happy ending? So many questions, so little answers. Time is the word I’m missing. In this place, it is neverending.
Spotted in front of Shell Headquarters, a giant polar bear puppet protesting Arctic drilling. The glaciers are melting, the seas are filled with plastic debris and filth, and the world leaders are in search for more oil, more ways to contaminate our planet. When was the last Shell oil spill? How much did it cost the ocean’s ecosystem? There is not enough money in the world to warrant the theft of our natural environment by billion dollar companies. A polar bear in London stands alone in silent protest.
In the middle of the street in front of the Royal Courts of Justice is a statue of a dragon, the official guardian of London’s financial district. It is a reminder of London’s mythical past, conjuring images of King Arthur’s round table and Merlin’s magical spells. Walking through London is always a kind of historical tour of my childhood imagination, where vestiges of fairytales linger in broad daylight, demanding to be seen.
Every picture of the Heath is a painting, and this one of Hampstead’s No 1 Pond is no different. It aches to be set on canvas. An end of summer project perhaps? Whenever I’m feeling too closed in from living in the city, a walk on the Heath sets me straight. Quacking ducks, barking dogs, rustling leaves, and — if you’re lucky — a bit of sun gives this spot of nature in the midst of London the power to mend a tired soul.
I visited Keats’ and Shelley’s graves today in Rome’s Protestant Cemetery. It’s a beautiful site, plush with flowers, trees and amazing gravestones inscribed with heart wrenching final sentiments from those left behind. I bought this book of poems from the minuscule bookshop on site. It’s written in Italian and the ‘original English’ and includes poems from both poets, a fitting publication for friends whose bond extends beyond the grave. Rome is a mess of sound. I’ll wait to read it in the peace and quiet of London.
Serenity in London
Snapped in the Guildhall
Hanging lanterns in Chinatown.
Gong Hey Fat Choy!
Mary Lynn Bracht 