i travelled from afar to look once again at
a magical place from my childhood,
of stories and dreams,
where imagination and creativity
took flight, never weighed down by commonsense.
my tiny kingdom had been destroyed by progress.
i stood on hot concrete,
staring incredulously at a large edifice of
glass like steel and steel like glass.
searching my memories,
i did not see this
rather, reflected in the mirror like steel,
i see a cluster of wild apple trees,
stunted and gnarled.
through the eyes of a child
these wild trees were a magical orchard,
created just for me.
i sat in the tall grass,
shaded by succulent fruit,
listening to a symphony of insects and birds,
watching stories unfold in the clouds.
it was a Garden of Eden.
for a creative child,
the perfect backdrop for imaginary tales with
apple banquets fit for a princess.
tales which progress
will never destroy.
stories outlast cities
part of our shared, collective consciouness,
living where neither rust nor mold can destroy them.
stories live on in us.