All down Jamaica Road there are small bow windows
Jutting out neighbourly heads in the street,
And in each sits, framed, a quiet old woman.
These watch the couples who pass or meet,
And some have borne sons, now ageing men;
And most have seen death in their narrow house;
Heard wedding bells for their grandchildren;
Seen boys seek the bar for a last carouse;
And heard wives cry, through thin plaster walls,
And watched babies laugh in the sun, outside.