Saturday, drizzled and overcast. There is a sting on the cheek, and the rooftop slate glints from the moisture. I am early, or the train runs later today. I look to sit, but am drawn to the space beyond the roof to say hello to the sky.
I perch at the end of the station, minutely tracing the latticework of nature as rogue plants have worked their way into the urban sprawl. Leaves gasp upwards to catch the droplets in the air, leapfrogging the withered and decaying residue of summer. Blades of grass crisscross twiglets fallen from grace, while insects scurry for the shelter of the dark.
Each mark on the page takes me deeper into this secret world that creeps closer to the concrete. My hand describes geometry and bends lines around themselves as undergrowth is unpicked into separate threads. Slowly my consciousness dissolves into oblivion of events around me: people come and go, trains hum down the tracks, conversations begin and end; whilst I follow the leaf to the tip of its stem.
This bank, running along a transport artery, existing in the peripheral vision of the daily world - only acknowledged to curtail, forms its own logic - its own story of the seasons; its existence is impressive, its survival more so. A small patch of interdependence that strives to touch the sky, yet combines for shelter and nourishment. This is growth in its fullest sense, not merely the action of one or a few, but the understanding of a whole system that binds one to another, and to the world around it. This is growth as being and ageing and nurturing and comforting; not growth as we have come to think of it - as bigger, faster, stronger, more.
This patch of nature, eeking out its life amongst continuous threat, shows us growth in the purest sense: it renews as it develops itself, it plans as it exists, it winds itself to others in order to experience more.
And, at this moment of epiphany my train arrives to take me to work.