Do you remember how the bronze bouquet
Would sway in the wind on Angel Hill?
Those blue-green leaves against the grey
Skies are held aloft to this day still -
Though never still - the city’s thrum
Plays a chord on them for its own ear
Enticing those alive to come
Embrace the dead remembered here.

And here our grass-stained jeans would kneel,
Our bark-rough hands would press the stone.
Braving the wind we would hear the words
Sung aloud for all who ever feel
Or ever felt - you are not alone
We wished or thought we heard.