A small town in the 1940s. We're paused here, slightly sweating, on a route march from the future. The houses are all wearing down, decrepit from a failed decade, and yet their window glass is polished. I recognise each house in detail, can almost name the families, but know too what the years have wrought. This one, that one. Weatherboard or brick or fibro, torn down in a day or two. A sort of mall and blocks of flats rise up to take their places. A few survive, cobwebbed and empty. Some are lovingly refurbished. The weather though is not much changed. The lawns and yards are no less parched, their fences still askew. A childhood has retrieved its sharpness while vanishing entirely. I know we're in a dream. But that will tell us nothing. A small town of the 1940s; war still throbbing to the north. And yet, despite the blackout code, its windows strangely shine.
'Windows' a new poem by Geoff Page
By this contributor
- Geoff Page reviews 'Transparencies' by Stephen Edgar
- Geoff Page reviews 'A Personal History of Vision' by Luke Fischer, 'Flute of Milk' by Susan Fealy', and 'Dark Convicts: Ex-slaves on the First Fleet' by Judy Johnson
- Geoff Page reviews 'The Fremantle Press Anthology of Western Australian Poetry' by John Kinsella and Tracy Ryan (eds)
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