A Prose on Hampstead Heath
It's caressingly warm for 6.30pm. I'm using my new picnic rug and not-so-discreetly picking caramel out of my teeth. Next to me is half a box of Toffifee and a coffee. My bare feet are hovering over a reflective pond and I'm staring into the sky.
It's a lazy Sunday. Slept in, had a quiet breakfast and a late spaghetti amatriciana from my favorite dinky Italian in Kilburn. Bought a swag of delightfully cheap stuff from Poundland. (And now enjoying two items.)
The birds are singing praises to summer. The breeze is tickling the leaves. Blackberry brambles sprawl rampantly with immature fruit. Foragers had come and gone already.
I'm at a spot I call Bunny Kingdom. When it's idle, spring bunnies come out to sun bake. I noticed once when I woke from a nap and they were everywhere. Quietly basking. Their wee noses twitching. But once spotted, they scatter into the bushes.
Secretive little creatures. Did'nt even bother reaching for my camera. In a blink, it was like they were never there.
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