A "ya" so high

At the corner of the triangular square, by the Grove's gardens, a silver lining. Minute, petite, forceful traveler of ages, she puts her hand near the wooden bench. Mold, green and humid in her hand. Taken directly to the side of trousers, oh so red. At seven, she woke, in the interiors of Louyang, was grabbed from her bed, and walked for times as long as incense can burn. Frost bite, decay, peaks of snow, and infinite rows of paddies in the way. She was given in secret a child's sword. Or well, she took it. And in that sword, lining. And in that lining, silver. And her reflection. Just as bright as this morning's shining. There, in the park, collected and together. Now 65. Now about to exercise. To expand a routine that can fiercely defeat rows of armies and fighters. A routine so rehearsed that lasts, if only, fourth fiver minutes. A routine were no word is uttered. A routine on grass, green, in the confines of British black steal. A cage so thin, unable to confine her lament, that very last "ya" as strong as the lament when her father died.

Sunderland Terrace

The man tranced as he walked out of the house. White London facades await him.
A street where bricks have petals and windows water. Before touching the street, in the garden of flowers, he caught a sniff of air, looking right and looking left, Sunderland Terrace, filled with Spring. How powerful to see the street spurt. And to see neighbours, walking, civilizedly to work. And then he tranced. There. "I must work," the notion seem inherited, the notion seemed to fit into the routine of the sprout in April, the breakfast table, but little else. He knew stepping on the street, he would walk, back upright, gaze determined, and fast pace. To sit on a bus. And commute. To work. Like a patriot. Like a citizen. Black iron balconies see him off, to his journey away from Sunderland. And he cannot help but turn, and catch the glimpse of the street. We have defeated it all. "I am expiring."

Blossom Bowl

The hands stretched out of the umbrella holding a touch of naughty strawberry. A bowl in a scent. Carried, in a light blue blossom container today. Around it, a wrapper of drops, rain, industrial rain, but clear. The kind the pavement likes. The kind that makes British pavement shine. And scent expanding, on the buzz and mumble of pubs and canteens in today's modern day, eclipsing the fast foodness of it all. Not today. No. London, out for lunch, husband and wife, and pudding. And on, across expansive bridges that made her feel important, cleansed, and warmer. War has ended, we have won? Literally: winter came to an end. Out of an umbrella, hands glaring on the sunglasses of the London lady, in her early thirties, her hands, everywhere, on the cobble corner, of the bridge. London, Spring.