17.

Along the canal, the cherry blossom falls like snow. My hair is alive in the wind and strands catch in my mouth and snake my head in a dark halo. The sky is blue and the day tastes of grass and crystals and the iron before a rainstorm. The light falls heavy and golden across the walls of the warehouses, burning them in phoenix hues. I walk quietly and quickly, on the edge, where the dark water stains the concrete with weed.

Here are the tombs where the bluebells march. Spring flowers bright against the green and grey, bugle-headed clusters in yellow and orange. Now the daffodils are pale as ghosts, and brush the graves with translucent petals. Look up and the sun blinds you, reflected in the eyes of the office blocks. The Barbican stands steadfast, caught in the dying light.