I wish enormous crab-apple trees would grow in the streets,
with rabbits living beside them, scurrying in their ornate burrows;
I wish pheasants would play ball in the meadow,
peacefully, not giving a damn about anything,
and where Tesco stands, there would be a lake,
with no rubbish in its water.
On its shore, foxes would laze about, watching
the fat carp doing somersaults in the middle of the lake.

I wish I did not exist, if in place of my armchair
there stood an oak tree, with squirrels living in its foliage,
and stag beetles duelling with one another on its trunk,
while beneath the earth, their roots
embraced the fungal threads; swallows would loop through the sky.

It would be good if a forest grew where the roads are, and in its depths
wild boar rooted through the soil, and in the shady clearings
deer grazed — it would be good if, in place of the city,
groves, streams and meadows alternated with one another.

There would be water fit to drink in the stream,
and in the quieter parts
beavers would build their castles, on top of which wild ducks
would rest; in the marshy parts, grey herons
would stand about, and from among the water lilies toads,
turtles and tadpoles would watch them. It would be good
if, in place of my kitchen, there were an anthill,
inside it, millions of workers rustling, marching.

I wish this poem did not exist, because I
would not exist either,
if there were no one to write it down — and in my place
a family of mushrooms would grow,
and I would not even be a memory.

(J. Vajda, 19 Jun, 2026, Withington. I originally published it here – on my old blog.)