They wear this town like a party dress, walk the streets radar echoing where reverence should be. You can feel the cracks in her if you step slow with thin soles. You can feel the undulations and the centuries pushing up through her concrete. I walked with her tonight, my Newtown, when she was empty of her people, pausing a while on corners in the absence of crowds I could still feel it, Newtown.
Tomorrow I head West and succumb to the annual turning of the tide. I'll hit that horizon and ascend to the peaks where my Mother in her crazy aprons and open-mouthed ovens waits, paper hats all in a row.
I'll set with the sun and tumble down the mountains back into The Peach where I will sit in silent isolation for a day and a night with ribbons at my feet longing my annual longing for the others to return with the turning of the tide.
Tomorrow I head West and succumb to the annual turning of the tide. I'll hit that horizon and ascend to the peaks where my Mother in her crazy aprons and open-mouthed ovens waits, paper hats all in a row.
I'll set with the sun and tumble down the mountains back into The Peach where I will sit in silent isolation for a day and a night with ribbons at my feet longing my annual longing for the others to return with the turning of the tide.
Comments
Dan thank you. It did.