different, too, in rain and gloom, but no less lovely.
In the fourth garden, a hill rises like a twisted spine
against the flatness of the rest: hiding keepsakes, a forbidden lifestyle, bones.
I think of my own poor posture, of my once curved spine
made right from years in an unforgiving brace.
I want to forget the people who made their homes here,
beneath a now grassy hill, where a different kind of unforgiving held them captive.