In a yellowing and russet autumn,
easterly winds release long whistles,
scatter ripples across the waves.
Riverside reeds bow in deference.
A small lighthouse stands alone,
On a scarred outcrop. Iceland
trolley, burnt out motor-bike,
careless b l o a t e d cat, drape
seaweed rocks.
The thicket of trees are long gone,
replaced by razor-wire fencing;
corroding steel, this city’s rustic.
Yet still I sing even as light slips
toward night,
high-perched, high-pitched trill
of unwavering hope, compelling chirrs
for the re-wilding of barren steelscapes
and styrofoam-free crevices
where a whole other world
of in(ter)sects s(tri)ve
to live. To live.
To be/e alive.
Alive.
To be/e alive.
Alive.