On Primrose Hill

Tonight we trekked nearly two miles from our flat in Covent Garden to The Regent's Park to watch the sun go down from atop Primrose Hill.

Somewhere in the distance high above London the tentacles of a Dementor kite whipped in the wind, a great many of our fellow sunset-seekers boozed away their work weeks and the words of poet William Blake, penned in 1757 and then carved into the cement on the hilltop sometime after that, reminded us about time and our place in it.

I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.