Strangers
Mornings used to fit like an old pair of gloves - routine came naturally. The garden gate always squeaked on its rusty hingeswe knew the shape of the silence 'round herea silence which I fear has now gone gone in a slow, drip, drip, drip.The weight of change sitting heavily in the scented aira new crop of flowers now bloom in our neatly manicured flowerbeds beautiful - perhaps,but not planted by usfaces in a street once familiar - now differentWe watch from behind net our curtainsstaring at something unknownsomething we see - but don't understand.We don't trust this unfamiliarity as it weighs heavily upon usso we worry,worry about the things we can't seethe many things left unsaid the things that have definitely changed.Who are these people what do they want - will they understand our wayswhat are they here for anyway,with their coloured skins and funny clothes - what do they want? We're not racist not hostile - just unsure,hesitant.We're not unwelcoming - just unclear, vulnerable to change,brittle - this change might break usso we guard what we know like a flickering flamevulnerable and exposedafraid that our panicked breathmight blow out the very light of our history. We didn't really know they'd arrivedwe drove along a road they might have made,passing a playground full of their children - children learning to get along and we didn't see that it was them who taught our childrenand made us better when we needed to visit the hospital.We just sit behind our net curtainswatching the front door hand on the latchwaiting to see if this new windwould blow the door in - but it didn't but it did make us look withinit made us question who we are. Who are we?Weren't we all strangers once?