I fell into a daydream last winter. The last thing I recall, I was cozied up by the fire with a good book. But now, all I see are rainy days beneath strange clouds. Murky liquid flows in the river Thames. I step out of the red phone booth. Ravens are feasting on leftover tea and biscuits. I see the Union Jack waving in the wind coaxing me to get closer. There are black cabs and red buses. They fly by in a frenzy. People are honking their horns– a traffic jam. I flash to Poppies. I’m ordering fish and chips. I have a handful of gold coins in my hand. The streets welcome a stroll as I eat. I walk for ages, through ages. But then I see white stone columns with iron gates. Buckingham. The Queen’s Guard is changing. I join the other tourists in awe. “Ello, mate!” cries an overweight American. Departing, I venture to a public garden. Kensington Gardens. I see the boy who never grew up encased in bronze. He is to live through the ages long after I’ve gone. I listen to the ducks in the waterways and the fountains hum. It is serenity, pure, and blissful. Whimsically satisfying. And hopelessly romantic. If only I can stay a bit longer this time. There is still far more I’d like to do. But the study window blows open. The flames choke out. And my cat, Peter, knocks over my cup of coffee. And all I say is, “God save the Queen!”