Breaking Bread In Borough

I come to see cobblestone lanes of London Bridge swallowed by the free time of the people, born on days like this. Spilling out under fleeting trains and overlooking eyes, sometimes meeting mine before fast leaving me to a broken walkers pace. Pavilions of stalls tucked in by others, blanketed by balusters of vapour aerating from grills and plates, and corner to corner following into crannies and permeating the air entwine bouquets of sangria and hot apple brandy. A scene veiled to any outside it by the vigor among it, nourishing all within it; a memorable encounter for the first acquainted, and a handsome juncture in the story belonging to those whom have met. Friends, lovers, everything in between and either side; a find for tourists and solace for Londoners and other lunatics, whom can take and treasure it at the same time as the city’s thousand commonplace shades of grey. A splintered stroll winds by rows of crisp colour, aromatizing woks, European trills and quick Cockney wit as I beeline for where manners are substituted with duck ciabattas worth every penny. Invigorated, sedated and devoured into exuberance, I bask in a childish delight of knowing true pleasure, and an alleviating delight for the grown of sagacity and contentment. Breaking rye into fresh mushroom pate I wash it down with ginger wine and sit against a pillar at a chorizo stall to watch all the howdies and glad talk of a London adorned by fugitive sunshine, and its corollaries merry in the immensity of it all. I take a still frame in my mind fearing no one shall ever paint this moment as I see it, and to remember it as one does every scene that tempers the sting of loneliness. The few that one calls upon in private moments, to freshen the fire in our hearts and afford the mind peace. I would sit there for hours, pausing only for spiced mulled wine, scribbling every sensation and consciousness that came to me, and drank to them, ornamenting the setting with sincerity and chance choice words.