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
Leave a comment
Please note that all comments must be approved by ABR and comply with our Terms & Conditions.
NB: If you are an ABR Online subscriber or contributor, you will need to login to ABR Online in order to post a comment. If you have forgotten your login details, or if you receive an error message when trying to submit your comment, please email your comment (and the name of the article to which it relates) to email@example.com. We will review your comment and, subject to approval, we will post it under your name.