I walk with Nanna in her slow down feet,
along the crowded early morning streets;
pass the ailing theatre with new coat of paint
its flaking heart shall soon re-taint.

There we see the spire standing tall and stark
above the multi-story car park,
it stands in ruins a remnant of the war
a popular stop off for day trip tours.

Pass the vandalised foundations, misplaced
memorials of youth; graffiti traced
in a triumph through the city, designs
on fame in a bombing of tag lines.

Toward the station carrying the refrain
of last night's exile, I just catch the train
with no time for goodbye, sit and relax
as the baggage rack lies "the past is past".

And the rail track cries as the chain-linked cars
travel the wound lines of cross stitch scars;
the blood line in relays of deaths and births
inks our tattoo on the body of earth,

her skin the archive of our passing lives,
this giantess on whose shoulders we ride.