Spring Where You Are

It's spring in London now.

When I saw that on the news, I thought of you.

When I turned the TV on and I was met with pictures of tentative white blossoms, against a backdrop of grey walls, weeds, graffiti.

There are people walking in the sun – on the other side of the world – throwing off their winter coats for the first time in months; putting down their woollen scarves. They're taking the time to smell flowers in the air, to smell the coffee and cinnamon, to chat with acquaintances not seen while the snow stayed. They're standing around in the squares and markets, remembering the taste of fresh air, watching the world begin to turn green again.

The sky is blue; and the city streets are grey.

I can picture you amongst them, folding up that big blue scarf I sent you, flicking through your closet for a lighter coat. Maybe you'll walk out along that bridge where we used to go, down into the park, to where the duckpond once was. You might still find some daffodils starting to grow there, you might notice a few birds nesting in the trees.

I know that a year isn't a long time – not in the span of two people's lives, certainly not for the cosmos – but I do miss you every day, and I do wish that things were different, such that I could go to you, or you to me. I've been counting the days, so I know there are 278 left.

Here in New Zealand it's autumn now. The last days of summer. Peaches and blueberries are the only summer fruits left on the shelves. While you pack away your scarf I get mine out – red and silver and black, striped like a barcode – the one we picked out at that stall in Bristol, way, way, way back when. I wake up in the mornings and I consider my winter coat. When I look out the window I notice how many of the flowers have gone, how dark the evening is already becoming, I notice where there are leaves fallen in gutters, where the trees across the road are going nude. Clouds are thick above the roof today, and every hour or so they weep for twenty minutes, a drizzle that's almost too fine to see. There's chimney smoke in the air.

Right now the neighbours are walking their two shaggy dogs. It's windy, and they're dressed for it; their scarves are grey and green. She has her padded red jacket on; and he wears his long, dark trench-coat. The dogs are bigger than ever, and I wish you were here to see that with me.

The sky is grey; and the leaves are copper and gold.