My old town sighs in its sleep as I pass.
I know nearly every house and shop,
but the names I give them are long gone:
Cummings’, Fitzpatricks’, Turners’ and more.
Maybe no one thinks of our place that way,
but someone must remember the late night train
that took us to the waking city
or the huge flour mill with the dingo sign
and a siren that called to the workers
but tells me now that it’s time to leave.
Published in Lighthouse