Green Park

On Sunday night and Monday morning, snow fell. Perhaps only once a decade is the city blanketed. Movement stopped, but I travel on the only tube line still running. A handful of us reluctantly straggled into work. We compensated ourselves by lunching in a deserted pub, then throwing snowballs and making a snowman into the otherwise virginal gardens of our building. Snow had revealed the magic of trees, and reminded us that we are something more than our jobs and journeys.

By Wednesday rain came and the temperature had raised. Our proud snowman was washed down to a meaningless stump. And on Thursday, when I made my daily walk through Green Park, I saw this image repeated dozens and dozens of times. The park was an eerie battlefield of stumps. Everywhere I looked there were these snowbases, rapidly fading memories of a brief moment of frivolity and fun when we all downed tools to play at being kids again.

I stopped, and looked, and sort of mourned. Around me, heads down, umbrella wielders hurried, late for work.