Thoughts and Poems on Highbury Fields

Today (at the time of writing) I’ve allotted myself two hours of hardcore poetry construction time. To do this I’m travelling approximately 40 minutes to Highbury Fields - travel not included in the two hours - a park located in the heart of Highbury, London, probably. There I shall reside and peacefully observe the world. Can Google Maps really do this place justice? Yes, it turns out it can.

The day begins with a trip on the tubular rail system that carries the coughing and wheezing through London. Thankfully it’s empty, apart from three men carrying beer at the other end of the carriage. They've engaged the full extent of their wisdom and decided against wearing masks. I> observe sternly. My eyes burrow deep into their exposed cavities.*

As the train plods towards Highbury and Islington Underground Station I contemplate the passing of Angel. Angel, as I’m sure you're aware, is home to an escalator with a length of 60m, and a rise of 27m. That probably makes it one of the longest escalators in Europe. To watch the beast fly by without having the opportunity to stand proudly upon it is a painful experience. I take my frustrations out on the maskless, eyes contorting ever sterner.

The train chucks me out at my stop and continues on its way. As it goes about its journey I continue on my own, working my way through the underground, and, to be honest, I don't pay much attention to my surroundings. There's a distraction, the faint bellow of a man plonking Angels by Robbie Williams into the air. He's doing it in an operatic style. I shall make no further comment on his performance, but it does serve as a cutting reminder to my aforementioned disappointment. I imagine he’s there quite frequently if you'd like to hear it for yourself. I didn’t stick around for any additional sights that might incite some poetry, I’m in a bit of a hurry. First stop, Tesco. Pre-poetry Kit Kats are in order. Stolen, obviously, no one should support the vile beast that is Nestlé.**

The brief excursion to Tesco ends and I continue on my journey. I head through the belly of the beast that is Highbury Fields, legs already feeling a bit rusty, park myself down on a well placed bench, and observe. There stands an ice cream van.

#1

An ice cream van operator.

Laced his wares with meth.

Business boomed.

The weather isn’t spectacular. It’s grey, which I believe serves to dull the inspiration sensors of a brain. I note this as it will make for a brilliant excuse if there happens to be a failure in poetry production. I see a family has bought themselves ice creams, I suspect they know the distributor, either that or the conversation is going on for far too long. The people of Islington surely can't be this jovial and communicative, not on such a dull day at the very least. The discussion itself is inaudible, I’ve made a tactical error. I've placed myself too far away.

The park itself is quite empty. I imagine this is largely owing to the fact that there’s a pandemic going on, and, perhaps more importantly, it looks like it’s going to rain. There are however your jogging types. I’m not joining them, I’m staying on my bench. Or perhaps observation perch, if you will.

#2

Colin sprinted past the joggers.

Full pelt through the park.

He imagined the shame they felt.

As he hid behind a tree.

Time passes and it begins to rain. Fear not, I brought a thin waterproof and my bench is under a tree. Presently I only have to suffer the occasional large dollop as rain gathers on the leaves above. I anticipate the situation worsening. My hood is up.

#3

Highbury Fields.

Rain slathers the freshly cut grass.

I've constructed a makeshift tent.

Stole coats off passers-by.

Of course I knew this was coming, that’s why I brought the waterproof. I want to call it an anorak because that’s a fun word, but I don’t think it’s accurate. The only purpose this coat serves is to keep rain off the skin. It’s the kind of coat you could imagine being a tent in a previous life. Thin, not spectacularly form fitting, and zero protection against temperatures in the frostier months. I’ll tell you what I didn’t bring though, an umbrella. Using umbrellas in London is like smoking in front of a baby. It’s awful for everyone, except the person currently holding the umbrella. Admittedly it’s less of an issue in an almost entirely empty park, but I stand by my feelings.

#4

Umbrella man looks smug.

He checked the weather.

I bellow at him.

Throw out harsh words such as 'nerd' and the like.

Anything to throw the twerp off his game.

Rain plunges ever heavier on my coat. I close my eyes and imagine myself on a good rainy British holiday. Time drifts away.

That’s my two hours up. I’m out of here. There’s a dry patch on a bench if anyone wants it. I admit I got distracted by my attempts to stay dry, so the poetry sort of dropped off in frequency. Still, four poems in two hours isn’t that bad, is it?

*I should probably note that this trip is actually quite important, it’s not solely about me going on a journey for poetry, which in itself is obviously incredibly important, so it wouldn’t really matter if that was the only reason anyway.

**Not actually stolen. And just for the sake of clarity, it was a Kit Kat Chunky, but they came in a four pack, so it’s sort of like one regular sized Kit Kat for a giant.