The Unrecorded Garden

Between the brickwork's gray and the city's hum, a pocket of moss is dreaming, green and still, unremembering the feet that once passed here, the shadows of people now lost in the concrete.

It thrives on the drip of a rusty pipe, an accidental oasis in the architecture's gap, where the light bends around a fire escape to touch the tiny, velvet heads of the clover.

No gardener comes with shears or silver cans, only the wind, carrying the salt of the bay, shaking the vines that grip the red-brick wall, writing a quiet history in the language of leaves.