Home at last by the river and an Inventory of my room.

Watching the Thames at low tide.

I am back in London now and it feels like watery soup after the dense intensity of Palestine. Something is missing and life feels diluted.

By the ghost bridge.
Cannon street Bridge
Tower Bridge
My room just before I bought a bed.

In my room there is a flying mermaid heading in the direction of Bow road, she is armed with mirror and comb, to serve as her sword and shield.

To her North from the white wall a carved wooden sun grins down upon a shelf-bound mermaid who reclines with mirror tucked between her head and shoulder.

A day of the dead skeleton, glitters suave in orange ribbons and a pink felt witches hat sits upon the grey crown of the rubber gas mask overlooking a mandolin.