This place is perfect in Pomes and Epigrams

Sneaking through gates
to sit
on a moonless night
on the edge of a ruined volcano,
I reflect on the shabby
weedy, overgrown patches of my life
that I like best.
The spots where the fabric is pilly,
and the sentiments a bit silly.
The dirt,
which has never been properly swept out
of the cracks in my kitchen.
It’s like the whau tree
that died last year still sits
all fallen over, providing
its branches to hidden forts and happy dogs.