This town of ours,
All brick and stone,
For centuries
Has grown and grown.
Its streets and buildings,
Docks and piers,
Have stood here now
Eight hundred years.
 
Where long ago
Was muddy shore,
Now buildings sit
And towers soar.
Where long ago
A forest stood,
Men came and built
With stone and wood.
 
But though the trees
Were all cut down,
Their age-old ghosts
Still fill the town.
And when sometimes
I walk at night,
The empty streets
Aren’t empty, quite.
 
The ghosts of trees
Still fill the air.
The ghosts of trees
Are everywhere.
Somehow, the town
And wood still meet,
And ghosts of trees
Fill every street.
 
And so I walk
Between the trees,
Almost a ghost
Myself, who sees
The ghosts of trunks
That stretch up high
To ghosts of twigs
Against the sky.
 
For though the land
Is built upon,
And though the trees
Themselves are gone,
The ghosts of trees
Still fill this place,
And ghosts of leaves
Still brush my face.