The elm of old Hyde Park still stands,
her memories stretching across the sky,
ending only at the tip of every sprig.
And where might her memories find you and I?
Hiding from the sun on a glorious summer day,
finding backrest against her weathered shell?
Or kissing softly beneath her barren twigs
on a street lit cold winters eve?
Dancing joyously amidst her fallen leaves
while stealing away our parents cigarettes?
But how could it be? None of these things were.
Yours was a different elm. And so was mine.
Her memories are but season’s dreams.
Things that never were but should have been.
Hope lives within her. And I.