zimmie
03-10-2010, 05:45 AM
A row of plants and flowers line the footpath that leads up to the pavilion. The lilac and the deep green contrast against the luminous grass, which glistens from a fresh surge of mid-afternoon sunshine. In the distance, the low rumbling of busy traffic from Oxford Street blends into a single, dull, indistinguishable note. A bus grumbles from its chorus as the leaden fumes from its exhaust pipe drift into the air. An aeroplane roars inattentively overhead, its vapour trails bleaching its course on the fluorescent blue sky as the early March sunlight bathes everything it shines upon effulgently. The mechanical obtrusions seem not to bother the seagulls as they fly past, squawking at each other as though mocking each scene they fleetingly witness. The last of the flock straggles behind, the suns’ rays burning the underside of one of its wings a crisp, bronzed colour, as it flies past unaware.
A park bench sits empty, untouched by the shadows that are cast by the barren trees, their branches silently awaiting the onset of spring. The sound of approaching footsteps disturbs that low rumble, before stopping abruptly, causing a momentary sense of unease until they promptly make their way along the footpath once more. Beyond the black, slightly rusted railings that circumvent the square, people pass as they make their way to, or from, various appointments.
Behind the railings and the people passing by, the terraced row of buildings stand, seemingly empty, watching over the square like noble custodians. The window panes on each of the buildings reflect the glistening sunlight; the cream window frames appear brighter against the scorched, deep red bricks, a row of cars parked in front of each of their high doorways. People continue to stride past, the remnants of winter evident in their heavy coats and gloves. A man walks through the entrance of the square with his dog, a black and white Border Collie, following obediently. It stops to sniff the two small bushes that line either side of the pathway near the entrance, before being called away by his master. The strong smell of cigarette smoke hangs in the air as he walks past, its caustic aroma lingering bitterly on the palate. His dog follows him, panting with his head bowed, trying not to succumb to the temptation of marking his territory on the pillars of the pavilion, the white paint work of which is fading, and in some parts, rusting.
The sunlight shines on, warming my face, making me feel sleepy. An owl hoots from an unknown location. Its deep, lazy howl sounds as though it is signalling the beginning of something new. The owls’ reveille fades as a sharp, cold breeze blows through the pavilion, waking my senses. I look down on to the pavement in front of me to see what seems to be the letter s embedded in the concrete. The noise of traffic becomes more apparent as the seagulls squawk past once more.
A park bench sits empty, untouched by the shadows that are cast by the barren trees, their branches silently awaiting the onset of spring. The sound of approaching footsteps disturbs that low rumble, before stopping abruptly, causing a momentary sense of unease until they promptly make their way along the footpath once more. Beyond the black, slightly rusted railings that circumvent the square, people pass as they make their way to, or from, various appointments.
Behind the railings and the people passing by, the terraced row of buildings stand, seemingly empty, watching over the square like noble custodians. The window panes on each of the buildings reflect the glistening sunlight; the cream window frames appear brighter against the scorched, deep red bricks, a row of cars parked in front of each of their high doorways. People continue to stride past, the remnants of winter evident in their heavy coats and gloves. A man walks through the entrance of the square with his dog, a black and white Border Collie, following obediently. It stops to sniff the two small bushes that line either side of the pathway near the entrance, before being called away by his master. The strong smell of cigarette smoke hangs in the air as he walks past, its caustic aroma lingering bitterly on the palate. His dog follows him, panting with his head bowed, trying not to succumb to the temptation of marking his territory on the pillars of the pavilion, the white paint work of which is fading, and in some parts, rusting.
The sunlight shines on, warming my face, making me feel sleepy. An owl hoots from an unknown location. Its deep, lazy howl sounds as though it is signalling the beginning of something new. The owls’ reveille fades as a sharp, cold breeze blows through the pavilion, waking my senses. I look down on to the pavement in front of me to see what seems to be the letter s embedded in the concrete. The noise of traffic becomes more apparent as the seagulls squawk past once more.