Above the graffiti’d wall
which offers its shade to a few garden seats
the dome of the sky seems whole, complete.
Who now recalls the fire
that earlier ran riot in the world’s veins?
The opaque shapes, in cold repose, are scattered here and there.
Tomorrow I’ll see the benches again
and the wall and the familiar road.
The future opens; its mornings
are anchored like boats riding at harbour.