I walked over the asphalt and concrete shell of a city, to get to you.
Towers of glass and steel make shadows of the sun, a billion tonnes
dug up from some far place, and brought to here.
How deep those scars must be?
A sky opens above cars and bikes and beeping horns, crowded with
seagulls fighting the ocean gale.
Lonely clouds appear then drift farewell.
Along a broken gravel path I travel, feet lost beneath weeds and tall
grass in seed, a green mat thinning onto muddy banks of loose rock
and brick, tin cans, faded plastic things.
Who coated your surface with diamonds, so bright that sparkling sun
drops stay on my eyes when I close them, leaning into an old wall in
Faded city noise carries on the breeze, while geese fight over stale
bread; the bigger one wins and shuffles off, he barks, shakes his bum,
then stumbles off to eat.
You are water called river.
Most of me is most of you.
Take this most of me, take it away and filter it through, into your
darkest coolest most hidden places.
Then return it to me, refreshed anew, this most of you.
And for this I’ll return to sit by your side, and watch the weeds live
and die; show me your seasons.
It should be up to someone to show you that gratitude.