Christmas 1: Greensleeves in the Suburbs

Nothing says summer like this: Renaissance minstrel piped through tinny speakers, musicbox-like, rotating through sleepy street, a call for ice-cream from a roaming van, suburban icon, half-sinister, half-sweet. To us in the south it seems fitting that the tune should be used too for carols: “What Child is This?” and another I don’t know, “NowContinue reading “Christmas 1: Greensleeves in the Suburbs”

Advent 3: Gaudete in the Suburbs

Rejoice! But first: there’s the stockings to fill. Some products may be unavailable in stores, but this one ships before Christmas. Rejoice at same-day dispatch; rejoice that you’ve met your Kris Kringle requirements. When the presents are bought and the turkey is basting, when the family’s sleeping, rejoice.

Hyfrydol in the Suburbs

A scramble for parking greets us, then the festive aisles to survive. These shelves have been stocked with seasonal cheer since the night when the dead arose. Now celebration cake replaces pumpkins to carve, and the shock is swapped with the joyful trimmings of the time. Yet what room is there? I negotiate tight spacesContinue reading “Hyfrydol in the Suburbs”

Avenue (Glenroy Lent #6)

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 inContinue reading “Avenue (Glenroy Lent #6)”

Streets to Live In (Glenroy Lent #4)

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, and here an expectant couple waits at the edge of the evening street. FruitContinue reading “Streets to Live In (Glenroy Lent #4)”

Wheatsheaf (Glenroy Lent #3)

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, some, sleeping, dream ofContinue reading “Wheatsheaf (Glenroy Lent #3)”