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.