Never here normally – not at this time,
when people whose lives have rhythms different to mine
disembark into days of meetings, close shaves
and private experiences in close-huddled streets.
Never here normally.
My day is suburban. My schedule’s the school bell.
On other days I walk with books and lesson plans in hand;
today the day is open.
Yet before the city opens
I’ll wander with these strangers
through a city waking up,
a thousand thoughts at traffic lights
blinking slow while phones alert,
and uniforms announce the trade
of souls whose days are not like mine.
Huddled in sleeping bags beneath the eaves;
scarf-clad, suit-clad, hi-vis: all this
says nothing more than glance can catch.
Catch this: the passing self,
the teenage dreams now thumbed to text,
executives touch-typing stress,
the arguments, the expectant dad,
these other selves not normal here.
What’s normal here? These souls whose days
are not – are just like mine.
True – but the wait weighs heavily now.
So many delays, and you can expect
more road blocks through the coming weeks
as rolling closures right across the north-west
make violent signs of little worth.
Light and momentary?
Perhaps; so, at least, we trust,
yet faith not sight must rule the game
if there’s to be more than witches’ hats
and traffic jams to show.
Yet think: soon, one day soon,
when the barriers roll back
and new lanes are revealed – then,
perhaps, we will say it was worth the wait.
Better by far the day when all roads,
all stones, will give way
to say, Make way.
Make eternal the way;
light now is momentary, yet when it dawns
none of our roadblocks will stand.
...the war he brought back with him is never far away in this suburb.
(Steven Carroll, The Gift of Speed)
Do you remember water from the rock?
How you quarried homes in this ancient soil,
when these broad meadows were the stuff of dreams?
Remember when the men came back
from years and years of wandering,
said, This is it, we’ll build it here,
and none of Egypt’s garlicked meat
could appetise their hearts away?
I was young. I don’t recall,
and was not there for much, or all.
But in the now, with homes all here,
the time is right to know again
what wilderness felt like.
What a discrepancy between
the joyful winging of birds
and the fear in men and women…
(Jean Vanier, The Broken Body)
And how one cricket starts
a neighbourhood symphony
in the grass of our roaming
near the concrete of our homing
in these streets and these footpaths
at a Friday-pink dusk
while the street in its silence
has houses and heartbeats
(through one window, hear dishes;
through another, hear Dickhead
be shouted – no reason);
and the moon in gauze sleeping
says, Here’s to a safe night,
watch over us, dusty
from the day, cool from night
watch our wandering, half-hoping,
down these byways and laneways,
all these avenues of grace.
For now, where do we live?
These streets are made for walking:
quiet, reflective, built atop a hill where the cityscape
sinks beneath a thoughtful gaze.
No walls to be broken, no walls to repair;
watered gardens greet the roaming eye,
an expectant couple waits
at the edge of the evening street.
Fruit trees, plane trees, crickets in the night:
all of this is built for peace,
but never built to last.
Some hands hold their stories tight;
others hold them open, to say,
Here I came when the war was done,
or, Here I lost my mother.
Hands cupped like hearts line the street;
stories filling houses beat.
Old street names speak of sheaves of wheat;
some go out weeping, some sing,
dream of other homes, or these,
and best and worst all suburbs breathe
and hearts still beat Your name, although
in early autumn dust we seldom
stop to hear, to praise.
Fire is the colour of the eastbound sun
lighting the face of the dusty sky.
Ash is the colour of this roadwork black,
of tarmac where the plane lost flight.
Red is the colour of the traffic light,
gold the colour in the new day’s eye,
and ash to ash is this road we drive;
no dust be lost today.