Untitled

as you well know

I come from the city

was born in this acre of quiet

this very centre

shut away from the press of people

the clatter and the roar

•

soot blackens the walls of my garden

even the pits of the cherries are grimy grey

in my garden we sit together

eating the smoke of the city

•

I explain how all this soot

is good for the roses

“see how they climb up

over the arch” I say

“and how their blossoms

heavy with dirty rain

hang down from the trellis all summer”

and then I tell how they spring

from the cold and yellow clay

where their roots curl around

ancient blades and shards

•

lately I’ve heard that people are leaving

the city, escaping into the hills

evenings they stand in the wild grass

watching our distant glow

as though the streets were burning

•

as I stand alone in the dusk expecting

the whirr of wings, hundreds of

birds descending to roost in my trees,

I think I can hear in the distance

the sound of feet running

up and down the rows of small houses

and the sound of your voice

•

“the streets are burning” you cry

“the streets are burning”

•

you cry