This town waits for the crescent bloom, the nightfall poultice that forgets us:
In slow grooves we circle our graves.
It secrets the cracks in our walls and sits by the fireside and listens to the ticking clock
And carries with it, its moss and damp breath,
Lumbering through the streets
Like a dog forlorn and drags the fog behind it.
This town once crooned to midsummer night
And rung church bells,
But now it droops and rests at a bus stop.
When on window panes were speckled drowsy raindrops
And children in tiny rivulets
Flowed up the hill
This town was eavesdropping.
Maybe we have grown too old to see the monster
And now we keep it at our bedside chained
So our secrets will stay there to rot
But the town scratches at the leg,
Implores the rain to come visit again
But knows the rain was never its friend.