Hyde Park

Hyde Park on a Sunday, the sun pressing down like a hot boot on the back of the neck.

kids on plastic scooters scraping the hot concrete like they’re trying to file the day down to nothing. bicycles with training wheels squeaking through the legs of mums and dads who just want a bench before the ice cream turns to sweet sludge in their fists.

crows and magpies line the path like old lags waiting for parole, their black feathers shine like cheap suits, eyes locked on the crumbs dropping from toddlers in massive sunhats, nappies sagging heavy like wet laundry.

a thousand bodies packed on a strip of grass that smells of fresh mower blades and sour sweat. Blokes going lobster-pink in the glare, dust sticking to the grease on their tattoos; faded anchors, roses, and names they probably can’t remember anymore.

fat bumblebees, heavy with pollen, bump blindly into each other over the weeds. and out on the Serpentine, mayflies hang in thick, pointless clouds over the green water. Tadpoles jerk through the scum under the ducks, while the white swans glide through the mess like they own the water and know it.

down by the big tent, the show horses stand polished and stiff. The riders in red wool coats are sweating through their uniforms, faces tight like they’re chewing on lemons. near them, kids scream at a clown in blue and yellow fluff, his painted smile running into his collar with the heat.

It’s a beautiful, sticky mess, everything loud and barely breathing. And nobody out here has the guts to admit they’d rather be home in the dark with a cold beer and the curtains drawn.

ten quid for ice cream,
my children for the summer,
back home to mum soon.