Maçka Democracy Park

Follow your feet at 5am

to the heart of Istanbul.

Mute, allow them to scuff the ground

as they show you where they want to go.

Away from these streetlights

and morning drunks,

these taxi posts and bakery windows,

into the gloom beneath the trees here.

Networks of trunk and branch,

of ravens roosting,

of rustle and murmur,

of paths cut by toil and time.

Far below this ink-blue sky

and that muffled airplane roar,

past these semi-stray cats and dogs,

up these steep stone steps

and down these narrow trails.

Networks of snarl and twist,

of songbirds stirring,

of scratch and scamper,

of cooler, damper, darker,

of shit and soil.

Past last night’s party there,

bottles, butts, tins,

stacks of new brick,

rolls of virgin turf,

a bench-sleeper with a glockenspiel,

a cafe shutter rattling up.

Far below this puce-grey sky

and those seabirds shrieking,

strains of the call to prayer,

the tinny whine of a moped,

and as the city gropes for the day

you cradle it in your hand.