The Wall by David Murray

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The Wall

Tree prints cast on sweeping grey concrete,

five panels high, each punched six times.

Trams catch rails, thrown towards Piccadilly,

metal on metal, industrial processes

reflected on convex mural lens,

scattering the sound to this city.

Run your hand along the cold smooth exterior,

feel the damp of the cotton city,

find pock marks, as if gravel has been plucked

for some far away Zen Garden, perhaps,

raked into a waterless form. But here,

cracked horizontal roots suck rain into the wall.

Dull light boxes lie below, ashtrays to discarded

cigarette butts, plastic bags, city detritus.

Is that all this wall has become, a place to turn your back?

Walls divide and walls protect, cities absorb

ideas from all four corners of the world.

Beauty lies in simplicity.

 

David Murray