We've built a city of memories from the ground to the sky,
they bloom between the buildings carrying offerings:
empty bottles once filled with imagined glories.
This spilled life courses beneath coarse tarmac, and it rolls beneath our feet.
the memories hide in the quiet corners where we heard the collusion of class.
They whisper from those thick front doors, with their shined brass streaming past.
They scream around the empty rooms, last echoes of a congregation,
baying and booming for their salvation under pools of bass dripped ceilings.
They cling still, with their matching wordsto floors and buses, to fields and swings,
a tribute to the nameless places which birthed important things.
They meander amongst looming, fissured trees, caught in half-dark places,
then float to rest upon a bench between our pale white faces.
These memories now were moments then; as they skittered away down the lawn,
they left us silent but comfortably so, in the air of a red-grey dawn.
