The tired troupe of giants surround a single fig tree,
arched over a cool-tiled playground. Anachronistic

floor-to-ceiling shutters colour every block
a wooden textured pastel. Rust colonizes

many a locked off stairwell. These visible marks
of passing time in an estate due to be demolished 

are arresting with relief. In a country where peeling walls
are ever vanquished with relentless paint, we have

not learned the art of buildings growing old. Our sea is
an endless hourglass of dredged up sand. Below moist earth,

protected streams are slowly tunnelled dry. We plan dikes.
Our beetles dwindle. Only drowned buildings will survive.