Your park is a tiny round island,
swarming with pigeons,
circled and swept
by gasoline waves of cars.
A mumble of green
dissected by two inter-
that drop onto the road.
Here are seven trees, a couple of benches.
And here’s the official sign
with your name on one side only.
Not a line of your cobalt poetry in sight.
Yet, in the Annex, your neighbourhood,
you’ve left this Lilliputian clue:
small as a wish…”
“never quite been found.”*
*(From “Night on Gull Lake,” by Gwendolyn MacEwen)