(designed to read with the window set to two-thirds of the screen width)
To the south grey cumulus clouds, lit by sunshine, float against a pale yellow mistiness - I don't think I've ever seen a sky like this.
I'm enjoying the view over city rooftops and the warm air inside the train.
Annoyed by the evident lack of support in this middle class culture for poor and disaffected-looking people such as travel on this inner city railway. No one here looks as if he or she belongs to the system, or feels that it is his or hers.
On the heath. A crow stands still on the head of an abstract sculpture by Henry Moore, Two Piece Reclining Figure No 5. I laugh. The crow flies off. There's a humanist pride in such sculptures that is diminished by the bird.
Outdoor cafe. The air is cold but still. A dog is barking in the distance and there are sounds of someone sawing and hammering as people sit and eat and talk. On the way here I saw a thrush - paler and more subtly coloured than I remember seeing before. I like the thought that each of these things is of equal value or significance. (But the people in the train looked to me as if they were not feeling equal.)
I look up and see a twin-engined aircraft. I think it's a Boeing 737. And beyond it, through streaky mare's tail clouds, I see the moon directly above - to me it's looking smaller and more distant than usual.
There are only three people left in the garden and now I'm going away.
I left the communal newspaper on the table. And the crockery. There was a man in an apron clearing up.
digital diary archive© 2002, 2003 john chris jones
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