An old shearing shed turned antique shop
Where she expected woolen garments
To keep the vicious winter at bay
Nearly died getting there
As she turned blind in front of
A right-turning lunatic who had right of way
But still made it to the sandy car park
My breakfast in my chest like a wake-up call
So we ascended steps
Wandering through bric-a-brac
Way too early on a Monday morning
But being a public holiday the folks were there
Those fire-stokers, scarf-knitters,
Model-car collectors and
Deceased-estate grifters
Bringing in the bargains for the locals
And the occasional tourist
Yet the place was profoundly out of time
(An analogue of the town itself)
As if you had stepped through the looking glass
And were reviewing history backwards
Through the minutiae of each stall
50s toys, 60s clothes, 70s records,
Each one a time capsule locked into the past
So firmly it made you want to take a shit
Then buy a retro jacket and get the fuck out
At the counter hearty country women served
Persuaded against plastic bags
And over half-rim glasses saw us on our way
With a goodbye and a wave
Withdrawing we felt bereft
Knowing some secret had escaped us
And that despite our purchases
We had skimmed the surface of something
Deep, ancient and intangible
Coming away poorer for knowing nothing
© shaun patrick green 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment