A time —
when time was pocket-watched and country towns
were miles from Griffith’s teas.  When Sundays stayed
and bells contended in the street. A time
when voices soared. Remember talking at the steps —
those decent intervals when hats were raised
and gloves were buttoned up? Then moving on
past pagans reading on verandahs — home
where waiting gates shut silently and blinds
excluded the remainder of the day?

Remember too —
those bleak epiphanies, those times we heard
the venomed ends of sentences and saw
the acrid underneath of things? We found
a town —
where hates were patient, coiled and waiting or
writhed quietly inside. Remember all
those faces fixed in smiles? Can you recall
a town —
where whispers were, where curtains twitched and streets
restrained themselves? Where windows watched and doors
kept inside things inside. A place where eyes
surveyed the grim beginning of a week.
Our town —where nothing stirred
and stillness passed for peace.