There was a rainbow, I remember.
No beginning and no end; just the arch
suspended majestically above, between
Winston Churchill’s bunker and the courtyard where I watched the “changing of the horses”.
The rainbow sparkled, as if England was welcoming me.
A picture would be useless, I knew, because I could not
possibly capture the flavor of that English rainbow.
I turned and continued to watch the changing of the horses, the
guards majestic in red and black uniforms.
Yes, they were nice too.