That’s how it was,
a few trees scattered carelessly
but standing proud
as if to say
this was not our idea,
this waste of space
this temporary place:
the abandoned building,
the uneven paths,
the leap in the dark,
sparks of stars through the web of branches.
A few visitors, some hurrying through,
some lingering suspiciously –
some waiting for urban enchantment,
hands in pockets,
looking for loose covers,
paperbacks, a litter of kittens.
And then you, one autumn,
when concrete fell instead of leaves
and the grass was screwed into the soil.
You cast a spell,
signed a contract,
read the small print and suddenly
a kind of order arose,
climbing toward the sky:
scaffold, bricks, mortar
with a view of the cathedral.
And suddenly the rabbit vanished
out of the hat:
no longer there, however hard they looked.
And yet some careful trees survived,
a path headed north, towards God,
and west, towards the setting sun.
Now the trees lean towards
The wind rises.
It is autumn again.