Prenzlauer Berg
Now I am on thin, granular concrete,
Undulating unhelpfully,
The fruit of thoughtless planning.
I would rather stride the streets
Of Prenzlauer Berg and
Feel the rounded discomfort
Of miles on cobbles,
Following long shadows
In a reverie of liberation.
I could turn left to Kreuzberg,
Where he misspent his youth,
Or left again to Neukölln,
Where they fantasised
Faux bohemian lives
Pre-gentrification.
But I choose the incline,
The feel of metal permanence,
Encased in nature.
In Spring, the streets are shaded
By a parasol of verdancy.
In autumn, a carpet of their remnants
Offers me a gentle echo of my footsteps as
I crunch cheerily to discovery
And watch apparent effortlessness,
Marvelling, remembering the weight
Of expectation, pulling down pedestrians
Into their shadows at home.
