These Old Walls

I don't see bricks any more
or hardened mortar,
or what these walls once supported,
or blocked, or protected
or divided.

Sometimes, I see cracks,
or people idly leaning,
or clambering plants climbing,
or pigeons, or street graffiti
or lichen.

Maybe, if you felt called,
you'd delve deeper into history,
you'd find the mud that made the bricks
or the schematics of the architect
or the unique skill of the builder.
Maybe, eventually you'd find why
these cracks form, these pigeons rest
or these people lean.

If you didn't, who would?
Occasionally these bricks are mocked
by coloured aerosols, or relieving drunks, but
they are largely indifferent to time, or reason
or season.

They stand because they were incepted
by those before us,
remnant legacies that carve out our own future, simply by being.
But who are they to affect us? They who don't care about
these plants climbing, graffiti spraying
or people leaning.

They offer no compensating answer other than that
they were here. First.
Discovering any reason in these old walls
is not about the walls at all.
So it seems, I was called for this.
To celebrate things, because they are.
Because I am.