Clissold Park

I lay there one night, memories Came rushing back as a book of photographs, the scene laid out,Clissold Park, the day we played Tennis. Crazy Golf, the Park Keeper shouted get off the grass, we would stay all day, until it was dark.

The Fallow Deer, gracefull fawn, pretty, was a wonderful time to grow up in this city. Rabbits in the run, seemingly having fun, then peak at the birds in their cage, some boys stole my ball, I became quite enraged.

Played for the first time, Football in the scouts team, 1st Stokenewington, proudly keen, the ball came out of the sky with my head held high, completely knocked out, could have lost an eye, never played again, I resent, with a sigh.

On the hills, where once a train ran, next to the pond where there were fishermen, tried catching once or twice, clever little fish, spat out my worms and maggots, even spat out corned beef with spice.

I learned late to swing on the swings, when I did, I felt quite bold, then the caretaker lady said get off the swing, your much too old. People danced to the classical music, we began to hum, take the micky, copycat and laugh, forced to haste, then quickly run, we secretly enjoyed the music from the auditorium.

Mum would buy an ice cream from Sir Thomas Abney house, beautiful old building, I once chased a mouse. Into the paddling pool we used to splash, we had such fun, never needed cash. Ducks lined the river nesting on the side and sometimes lay in their sweet little house.

I grew up, moved away, lived everywhere in the uk, left London far behind, sensitive boy frightened from the inner city violent high, so up I got and ran away, see my sisters they’re okay, yet Clissold Park, still has a sway, perhaps I can go back there, one of these days.

Is depression dark?

Entering the tunnel of love, I ask myself ‘is depression dark?’, along with the sounds from cold, running watered glass, shattering my ears with a rush, my heart dying with a tightly wound crush!.

All at once, the winding tunnel wrenches blackness to daylight, the Kalashnikov sound of water flow, releasing into a ripple, joining what can only be described as wide mouths of screaming children on high rides, laughing, enjoyment to the full.

Birds in cages squawking revolutionarily speech to ice cream slurping brats, women crying bitter sorrow to each other, ‘men!, bastards!’, every one, big, young, old, impetuous and small, masculinity at the bar flexing muscles, standing tall, caring by not caring at all, beer swilling and a slippery fall.

Queueing traffic in the summer heat, all the time in the world to rest aching feet while looking at others in cars, also queuing to escape litter strewn streets of their holiday, puke ridden pools with sunburnt skin, white flesh displayed thin, tired from a long hard restful day.

Wonderful smiling faces surround me, “thanks for a lovely day”, they say, the very next day, ‘that’s okay’ I reply, thinking ‘I do wish I felt the same’ watching them cheerfully depart, still I feel a crushed winding of my heart, the day thunders away, I hear the sound of the river in my mind awash, lightening strikes into the night, another darkness, another fight, again I ask myself looking at the stars, is depression dark?.