The Rainbow of St. James Park

Just past Trafalgar Square, do not turn to the river, slightly off from that, on the way to Buckingham Palace, you’ll pass a park, see the trees and the hills, the lake and the gardens that could be filled with flowers. But it is winter now, only the moss remains alive; green testament that once this park held floral beauty, and one day it will again.

Still, even in winter the color blooms in St. James park. Not the traditional pastels of spring flowers but the iridescent shimmers of feathers and the vivid reality of beaks. A full fowl rainbow appears if you have the patience to look.

Red asserts itself on the beak of the ungainly black swan. Does he think himself as beautiful as his fairer cousins? The attention of the crowd, pleased to see this rare specimen, no doubt adds to that delusion.

Orange lounges on the bodies of the upper class ducks, who live on the west side of the park and are never seen on the east. They know they are more lovely than those common mallards. They have no more need of gaudy iridescence to attract handouts, than they have need of handouts; remaining aloof, apart and proud.

Yellow hides on the legs of the small wannabe turkeys, who bear small wattles on their upper lip. Shy and painfully aware that they are not in fact the thing they want to be, they stay closer to the water’s edge. When one works up the courage to approach, gawking children run away, afraid of its awkward walk and bobbling body.

Green basks in the shimmer of the mallard’s head, and his mate’s under wing, which in the right light, under the willow tree at sunset looks Blue. More down to earth than their high-minded cousins, the men socialize with many birds showing off their famed iridescence. The women remain quite bored and spend the time under bushes. They know they are beautiful, if you do not, that’s your problem.

Purple blushes, going unnoticed in its commonality. Trained as society is to overlook the beggars, the ephemeral lavender upon the pigeons’ necks is seldom remarked upon, but always present. Not all beauty is rare.

Do not forget the white of the Jacana’s head, as it paddles with fern like feet across the shallows. Though not a true Jacana he does his best to imitate his American cousins. Alone among the other birds the female claims the feathered pride. Like a snow flake on a moonless night, Jacana’s cousin’s crown appears more pure for the black of his wings.

The brown of the young swans still shedding their juvenile coat. Together they play at courtship and think themselves smart. Are they aware of the passing time? Too soon shall they be adults, graceful, proud and beautiful. What else are they losing with their colored coats?

When the sun catches it just right, the squirrel’s tail shines golden, poor thing, the only mammal on this scene, the only one wearing fur not feathers, not up with the fashions of the year. Yet to this party comes a lively pup, and now the squirrel must run from the unwanted attention of a fellow mammalian face.

Sit and listen for these colors, have patience they will appear. But if they still elude you, for the leafless willows snag your eye, then wait past sunset until all is dark and no color can be seen. Then from the east, a show, lighting up the sky with all the colors from the day, in glorious unavoidable tribute to the rainbow of the natural world, the Tiffany Fountain shines.

Reflection on Widower’s Houses

Everywhere we walk it seems was once a place of ill repute, to be avoided, dangerous; poor. Whether the iron has been removed from the front of the homes or the wooden additions to the top of the apartments suggest Huguenot residents long ago, London, it seems, is an ever-growing city of the recently poor; an ancient timeline of gradual, unstoppable, gentrification.

We stood at the heart of London and spoke of how once it was the fringe. An old temple, now a monument, was once to be avoided at all costs by those possessing any class. With this in mind, the final moral question faced in Widower’s Houses seems far more nuanced. It becomes, rather than a question of the savage exploitation of the poor, the answer to the inexorable march of time, embodied by a ruthless man. Should they turn the poor houses into rich ones? Whether right or wrong, history will repeat itself. Everywhere we step, from St. Giles to Soho, even the Globe Theater, once the domain of the poor, is now occupied by the middle class and the rich.

What is it that drives this gentrification? One would hope that it is driven by those who climb above their poverty, yet look back with fondness on a childhood remembered through rosy glasses. But if we believe that, we wear our own pair of rosy glasses. Looking at these stone temples, the sole remainder of the time that was, is it not more likely that those who came and rose the locations up from the dregs looked only at those obvious landmarks and cared not for the smaller ones? Thus we must ask ourselves, is it not the over romanticized poor that attract the upper classes down rather than the drive to succeed that attract the lower classes up? The romantic view of the poor which compels us to help, too often compels the wrong sort of help which instead hinders.

The landlord in Widower’s Houses is wrong to hold back repairs, but the situation is still far more complex than the idealistic Doctor believes. When money is casually thrown at poor regions, with good intentions but without careful consideration, the location is improved but the people themselves are pushed away. The real “hipsters,” who gave the place its flavor are removed for lack of money, and rich wannabes take their place hoping to understand the very people they pushed away.

London is a living memorial, recording the constant march of the poor and the outcasts are they are driven farther away by the very people who try to help. Plaques of blue and green, of white and black, square and round, large and small, commemorate the times when people of substance and character lived on these streets, now occupied by those of means. For, though St. Paul’s stands tall and proud, outside the original city walls the churches are far more numerous which, hundreds of years old, began as little more than a soup kitchen.