Hanging Gardens
The quick Coy Carp dart
startled at the image
mirrored on their murky
waters.
Sliding curling to deeper
depths
they seek safety in the
thick haired algae.
This round pond’s waters
turned the long turbines.
In the sanctuary of
ancient machinery,
old Veterans of oil crank
and piston,
thudding and coughing, died...
Bygone eras of sharp top
hats and lace handkerchiefs
and barefoot running
poverty in the back alleys,
- an era of wide bridges
and excitement,
with the sound of steam
running through the stations,
reduced to two twisted
limbs of torn metal.
Warped and rejected like
the overgrown train tracks,
in the forbidden ground.
Here,
the strange oaks have cast
dark shadows on the path,
stirred crimson leaves
scuttle and rustle by retreating feet,
greeting burgundy roses
bob their heads at meeting.
Only grey and black Carp
shadows turn around
in slow endless cycles
towards the twilight.
As the Gardens fall silent
only they
remember.