Urban travel tales

Lost in interpretation

initial post 14 February 2017 – revised March 2018

I have been trailing the riverside of Kingston-upon-Thames and Richmond
along the river Thames in Surrey from mid September 2015 to the early spring of 2017
Enveloped in silence, shadows and poetic imagery,
patiently reconnecting the dots that would lead me further ahead …

Richmond, riverside, fog, UK

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

Up on the trees a second trail unfolds, soggy crossroads leading to deadlocks.
Some branches ravel into knots, others split abruptly,
bewitching, a puzzle
as if tracing a treasure
that has been kept hidden too long.

How long has it taken for the green to turn into copper red and dry out into yellow swags hung from the ends like from curtain rails?
Longer than two months, I reckon, it was done so slowly, reluctantly.
Yet, I remember that week-end, I was idle, when 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 have started 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 had practiced dentistry with the passion of an artist and the ethics of a humanitarian
in Kypseli, Athens where she had lived 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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