I can tell there is a secret to my city that has yet to be told,
a mystery waiting to be solved,
a fantasy yet to unfold;
lurking behind shelves warped with the age of our central library;
slithering in the sewer lines beneath my feet walking city streets;
watching from camouflaged tree tops as I wander river pathways at night.
It dwells in the unused pre-war postboxes of what few heritage buildings remain;
in the underground passageways connecting banks in the city centre of old;
in my local flea market echoing the former slaughter house it occupies with the calls of its vendors.
I see it in the ghosts of a hundred dead horses floating in the Elbow River current;
the abandoned luxury train station with art deco arches hidden in the very centre of the city;
the fallen trunks of memorial trees lined up, cut down out of fear for their overgrowth.
It beats at the heart of my city,
like whispers coming from shadows in the corners,
that some would ignore
but I strain my ear to listen.