No fences are broken here
where none exist
in a suburb of Copenhagen
where Astro-turfs open to everyone.
No paradise, these gardens,
and such high winds that goalposts
lifted, moved with the stones
that pelted us in the storm.
Polystyrene was everywhere for a reason
I’ve forgotten how to fathom.
Metres walked with nonchalance became
markers of attrition with the wind.
This progress, slow as a four-year-old
with teeth sinking into a jumper,
carried to provisional sanctuary of offices.
Just a strip of land, here,
which no-one trashes. No litter
our Minerva ball unstolen.