Marshes

When the King in Winter is arrived, walk your road from the never sleeping concrete to the dreaming grass, from crying metal and human foods' smell to quiet silence of bushes and trees. Do this while the day is close but still the night keeps it back. There are three light levels. Dark at the ground, a grey light above and a brighter one in the sky.

An iron bridge lifts you over the rail road, into grey light. Noises are behind you. Also seagulls are oddly silent, they glide close each other, getting ready to the coming day. Aspen leaves scent is sweet, hawthorn lands in naked edges aside your path, leading you under dark trees, leading you to uncultivated fields. Mr Crow looks at you from there. His greeting is the only sound in the air.

Wild roses grown at lawns fringe, their red fruits are blood drops caught by the thorns. After nocturnal rain a flooded under-way is in front of you, the way is close, traffic noise arrives to you from the surmounting road. But it's faint and remote, it's distant. Everywhere are yellow leaves which northern wind swirls around.

Among trees four horses have passed out the night, covered by caparisons. They are vaguely interested in you. One takes some steps toward you, while you move on.

Channels, a river and water reservoirs land grey and cold coloured. Water scent is cold too, you can't get it, is almost bitter, is almost rotten. White swans flow across the sleepy water, their ice and open space made dreams which are still fading aside them. Chilly drizzle pricks your face.

You can forget that all this is inside a city. You can forget you are in London.