Remembered City

Remembered city. I could find my way
eyes closed across the hill, along the path
the flattened snake was on, past broken drains
and one dead dog, once, down the smoky road
with traffic hooting at each walker, fool
enough to try and cross, and stop to watch
the lazy river on its easy course -
and I still know the colours of the doors
and what crooked steps to climb to reach the top
that looks down on the city - Parque Central,
its white cathedral and its rubber tree,
and far away, Suyapa. There would be
a small, old Indian who came up to gaze
across the country that his forebears lost
to Spanish robbers, proud, and lean, and shy -
he won't be there now. All the world he knew
was washed away right down the seven hills
in floods of muddy death, all spoilt once more
to leave the view unbearable, the men
huddled together, comfortless again.