Dust gathers with the passed years
now they are hidden in a closet.
How the change came, and went, and
returned with a friend in farce.
Tired cycles pedalled through
hard canyon walls of concrete,
and steel, and labour, as
stolen to be shared alone,
behind closed doors with silver.
Beside the tower, spikes rest
in the street’s free warmth.
Beneath paved slabs, the beach –
Watery paths for blood to sail.
But no more. No more cruel years.
Now they are hidden in a closet.