Urban travel tales

Lost in interpretation

initial post 14 February 2017 – revised March 2018

I kept walking along the riverside from Kingston-upon-Thames to Richmond, in Surrey   from mid-September 2015 to the early spring of 2017. I have been patiently reconnecting the dots that would lead me further ahead; though at that time I just kept walking, immersed in the shadows and in poetic imagery, enveloped in silence…

Richmond, riverside, fog, UK

Winter has swept off relentlessly the striking green, leaving dark branches where before was foliage.

Up on the trees a second trail unfolds, soggy crossroads leading to deadlocks.
There are branches that ravel into knots, others split abruptly – what a puzzle!
I am staring in search of a treasure
that has been kept hidden – or stolen?

How long has it taken for the green to turn into copper red and dry out into yellow swags hanging from curtain rails?
Longer than two months – it was done so slowly, reluctantly.
And in one week-end, I remember it, I noticed because I was idle, just walking, the leaves were brought down all at once.
A strong bust of wind has swirled around brushing off the last that still trembled in full visibility at the edge of disappearance.

The houses suddenly were emitting signals, and the street lamps, seen from afar, were shedding their yellowish tremor against a dim opalescence.
What about these shadows that are moving behind windowpanes?
You would not have seen them before, it was the foliage.
Rush, they turn on the light before four o’clock now.
Yes, rush, before they pull the blinds, returning home from work, rush, rush.

By mid February the days are getting longer again. Behind the crocheted evergreens, a number of anaemic sunsets lie down their mats on the fields at the awakening of vigilant sounds, surrounded by invisible creatures.

tree, branches







Who would interpret these ttttitu and ffrrrr for me, please?
This is not my mother tongue.
Look up at this tree, an open palm extended,
pleading for a reading, a caress, a kiss.
This is the dictionary.

All dead enjoy the same country, the same language, I assume.
No passports. No borders. No need for 

In loving memory to my mother who would have appreciated this river, this walk:
Christina Andreou – Samloglou  /
Χριστίνα Ανδρέου – Σαμλόγλου
October 1st, 1924 – January 18th, 2015

Born in Peloponnese, Arcadia, Agios Vasileios Kynourias.
She practiced dentistry with the passion of an artist and the ethics of a humanitarian
in the same neighbourhood of Athens where she spent her life since early childhood.
She had served her family and her community to the end of her days. 

2017 © Copyright. All rights reserved for texts and photos
revised March 2018

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