Portobello   The summer is in town when the ducklings wear their sequins; performing the salsa, gliding on the continental ripples from the lights’ projections. Glistening water arena of summer juices featuring mirrored swans wearing white tuxedos dancing the tango to an applauding sun and ever changing clouds imperilled on the lacquered sky.   Delicately they flush their sacred win,gs a waterfall of transparent energy to baptise birds. Happily, I rest beneath the arm of a weeping willow. Time is in no frantic rush, unwinding near the rushes. Can-Can dancers perform on the Canal Bank, swishing their feathers to and fro, a chorus line of marsh plants, costumed in petticoats of weeds and black root stockings.   They look burlesque for the seedy traffic, as clowning butterflies uplift – their papier-mâché coats, like tiny fluorescent parachutes ejecting from the smallest of flowers landing gently on the rugged edge of silken waters.   Brontë in Boots   Winter, my Heathcliff warms the narrative, growing in my chamfered heart. I imagine the moors reaching out behind the …