Sunshine

Sunlight flows like a liquid omelette over London. Trees in leaf like fountains, spray their shade over parched parks. Skirts flutter like birds and suddenly, it is the season of sunglasses and convertibles. Oh, the freedom of riding in an open top car, hair spraying in the wind, music thumping, vibrating through the door.

It reminds me of an hour spent up in the cockpit of a 747 flying from Hong Kong to London and watching the dawn slip over the horizon. We were so high, we could see the gentle curve of the earth, and the blues of the sky changing from deep, dark indigo to fluffy, baby blue as the light crept in, like a child, scared in the night, slips so silently into his parents’ room.

Noise sweats from the open windows and doors of neighbouring gardens and the meaty smells of barbecues curl into the heavy, hot air. A blanket lies across the city and we swelter in its heat.

Minerva