Old Street, Wan Chai

A breath of wind shows us the tree,

its rustling not from rain,

but leaves still green and tender.

Our views alter with our steps.

Sudden gusts shred leaves

and we stutter,

this scattering

its own torn story.

The wind gone still,

you ask if it’s over,

a stark tree stripped

on a bald building site.

Let fall the rustling past,

let wind, not rain, restore

leaf by leaf this tree.