Crows and Crocuses


    I walked through threadbare Kennington Park, which was empty save for five or six chav kids in a run-down pavilion, sitting up on the backs of the seats, smoking and talking about bad boy stuff. I continued along the path. Hundreds of springtime crocuses were pushing up under the bare trees. Some of the paths were closed off by workman’s screens although there was no sign of any workmen, and all of their equipment lay dormant around the muddy edges of the park. I came to a long, low, grassy trench. There was a sign at one end of it. It read: “This is a memorial to over 100 local people who were killed in an air raid shelter in the park during the Blitz. A 50lb bomb fell around 8pm on the 15th October, 1940, causing one section of the trench air-raid shelter to collapse. Over 100 people died, the majority of them women and children, the youngest just 3 months old.”

    As I continued my walk I passed a crunchy-brown, dead Christmas tree that someone had dumped next to the locked-up concrete skateboard bowl. Six crows were having a raucous domestic dispute amongst some daffodils. One member of the family was pinned to the ground as the others flapped and croaked at it. As I neared them they flew into a dead tree, still cawing loudly against the slate-grey sky.

    I had now made a complete circuit of the park and was back at the crumbling pavilion. One of the chavs delivered a powerful belch as I passed; one of them flicked a cigarette butt into the path in front of me and they broke into ragged laughter. A few needles of icy rain began to fall.

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