when the roofs are flat, and the fishmonger street stands so far away from the sea

do not shut out the tremor
of aspen leaves when the wind is fresh and gasping
over the smoke-hardened roofs
of a city you were not born to,
but invaded like the feral pigeons and the fishmongers
so far out from the sea and the tumult
of gulls in the commotion of sorting the small fry
in the heaving waves.
the green trepidation is all you
and the passing summer have got,
before the larches turn yellow and bare
their branches to the crows
and the night that brings snows and another,
much spikier movement, void of all green
and growth, and all frozen, crisp
and ready to shatter into unrenewable pieces
over one touch.
when the wind scatters
the unsound, fragile whispers,
stand open in the faint haze
of the summer smoking with autumn sunshine,
breathe deep and inhale – thus
the earth turns, and all knowledge
returns to its maker.

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