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CHRIS HOLDAWAY

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I thought it was a castle

 

My once-favourite mountain has come inside
The city limits—with its round water reservoir on top.
In my kid outings I thought it was a castle, perched
Above this suburb.

Woods and vaulted hallways, without a trace of mist except
Against my eyes today;—adoration in confused
Unlikely wilderness they say is a blight: scoria

And ragged trees.  Beaten weathervanes misplaced in the city.
My short legs
Placed a hillside on stilts.  The cambered streetlamps must be
The spare-timber blocks Dad hitched to my feet
With loops of stapled ribbon.

Shade that no longer imagines Roman aqueducts
Arriving at roads like bridge to river.

 

 

 

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