Hot brick shit-head hemmed tight smash and murder familiar with a live feed. Game children scream it. I have no cash, love, and plastic man on those walls. The code is this: 30 minutes walk, tops, in shade to work, or by the water (relaxation and other writing). Google Maps for me means Victoria Park, where Linda took me for recommends.

More directions on an alternate route. I tell her when we get there, “I haven’t been here since I was their size.”

Slowly, slabs inside canal, it’s mass, a special dirt through rails on this green path. It’s a fragment dream or memory on this day. A canal, stinking, maybe it goes back to the road. My first familiar is a club (a bowling club) but later new houses. On the other side, the empty canal shows up more  concrete slabs: illuminated grey topology rising to the railings and the old factories on the other side.

There’s an old grey bridge on the road like a tank.

By me, a thick forest hole I might have hid in. Did my grandfather take me here, my mother? There’s something…it’s like we lived around here.  This feeling lasts another five minutes and it’s all green and sun and it’s quiet. Everywhere it’s quiet, but for three harmless bugs that move like hornets. I remember, and not much has changed, besides the aeroplanes. They fly low over-head when they do. I saw the under-belly and the rotors and the whirls like primal wind-mills.

At the end of the path is love. As if several miles of walking among trees which walk shadows around the lake of the same length. Swans looking respectful, ducks and forty bobbing white little grey ones (pigeons), Larger birds line a branch which sticks it’s feet up over the cool ripples. Away there, It’s an island. There are five six of these, as big as my street.

A strong river over the bridge could take vehicles, but says none on this point. A memorial grey black tells it’s reach. The trees are thick and heavy, fifty, sixty foot. Oh, it’s love. The curl around the lake and out to a gap were a red concrete building, post-modern cabin sits by perfectly mowed grass. I’m noticing on the bridge there is a bench space and I sit and watch. There are small groups – mothers and kids, no screams. By me, a child plays around a tree.

“Aeroplanes aren’t yellow granny. That’s an old tree, and I love old, old trees.”

There is breeze.