(Green Building Dreams)
Somewhere, there is a concrete angel with green wings.
Masculine and Feminine, ancient and wise, stern and joyful, who dreams technical plans and calculates poetry with a slide-rule.
When he opens his hands, seeds fall from them like dust.
When she wiggles her toes, water-mains run from them, deep and sweet and clean.
When the angel smiles, a thousand photovoltaic cells light up, beaming buildings and business into wakefulness.
She whispers, laughing, of cities like cells and symbiosis.
He murmurs, slowly, of hard facades that breathe wind and sun and trees.
When the angel calls, North and South look up sheepishly and email each other furiously about dragonflies and bioluminesence and resurrection plants.
Where he gazes, communities gaze on each other, basket-weaving a natural surveillance network from smart-glass office windows, to open adobe doorways to twitching, broekie-lace curtains.
Where she listens, a thousand dialects sing and jostle and aesthetics elbow each other, apologizing for squashed toes, and meld and grow and dance, dance, dance.
She cups her palms to pour natural daylight into rooms and studios, schools and prisons.
He runs his finger along roof supports, strengthening them to carry ferns and farms, ponds and plover-nests.
Somewhere, there is a concrete angel, steel angel, regrowing wood angel, prefabricated formwork angel, with green wings.
She is pounding her feet and he is roaring his labour songs, waiting for the new cities to be born.