There’s been woodland here since the first ice age.
And still the dogs succumb to primal instincts,
Pissing up trees in their imported coats.
The people play at modesty on the fishing lakes,
Cooled by the shadow of the hilltop gazebo nearby.
Flashes of eternal sun bounce off the plaques
On memorial benches that go largely unread.
The paint cracks under our irreverent hands:
A fragile notch in the timeless ground.
The ghosts pack the well-marked trails,
Joining the queue at the park café.
Then a tree bends to the verge of breaking
And, on a newfound breeze, stands again.
Uncultured Review 