Winter silence is eerie silence; it awakens in me the sense that my surroundings have been padded with snow despite the conspicuous absence of the white, fluffy stuff in London this season. The sound of passing traffic is muffled. The snap of the cold breeze feels brittle and glassy.
cover of the recently revamped bus depot every one of us tells a story. The bus
depot that is located near the tube station that is connected to the railway
station. A hub. This is a well-known transport hub, which has been tweaked
slightly to make it resemble one of those modern-looking, architectural success
stories in continental Europe. Despite the fact that sink estates are rife
stories have no words but images, as each of us at this bus stop becomes the
vision of an autumn leaf discarded by a tree growing winter on its branches.
The tall bloke, pale as paper, with a suitcase in his hand, seems to have just
returned from a short-haul holiday in a Scandinavian country. The black woman
with the multi-coloured head-wrap, skin black as dark mahogany and drooling baby on her back. The short, bouncer-looking,
goateed man in the padded checked shirt paces around nervously. I am sure his
sheltered arms are covered in tattoos, each design telling a story. The
Gypsy-looking women with tiny tots on their laps sport faces that tell of
nomadic travels, of intolerance and hopelessness. The dark-suited man stands
somewhat separated from the crowd, as if refusing to be part of this
urban family photo. This city’s family photo whose background is the newly-built,
grey, skinny, pillars rising up and branching out into uniform metallic treetops under which we,
fallen leaves, huddle together, telling our stories, not with words, but images
whilst waiting for our bus at the revamped depot.
Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflection and Music”, to be published on Sunday
25th January at 10am (GMT)