Beneath the starry night sky, the dark waters lap
rhythmically in its soft, casual pulse as it gingerly wraps
itself around my perch. I watch the waves roll up as if to
greet me and wish me well. Everything here is tinted in blue
while glimmers from the distant lights of town add a hint of
gold highlight. Occasionally, I hear a rumbling from above
whenever the wheels of a carriage ramble across old
Battersea Bridge. In the hottest hot or in the chilliest cold,
the bridge has stood the test of time and seems as much a
part of the river as the water. Young lovers like to come
when the full moon is out and gaze upon the water. I'm not
sure what they see. Just perhaps it's an uncertain future on
the way or the comfort of the present trailing off behind
until it moves around the bend and disappears into Time's
annals of memory. Sometimes, through the peace, I hear
faint echoes of laughter from the opposite shore. I veer
away from those people. Society women showing their
gaudy pride thinking, in some twisted reality, that their
possessions make them better than the rest of us. I know
that's not true . You must remember, wherever you may go,
that the "salt of the earth" is dug from the ground. You
won't find it in the society column. It is also as equally true
that there will always be more of us than there are of them.
I wonder, though, as I hear the clatter of dishes, what relm
could be so shallow and superficial yet exist for so long
and how can one keep his sanity in it? No, I'm sure I belong
in the common relm. There's a comfort in that thought
though why isn't clear. A "warm, fuzzy" feeling that's not
totally unpleasant. So, here I'll sit and cast my bread upon
the water, reflect and move on.

Based on the painting:
"Nocturne In Blue and Gold: Old Battersea Bridge"
by
James A. M. Whistler