HOUSES
| Evening and quiet: a bird trills in the poplar trees behind the house with the dark green door across the road. Into the sky, the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys thrust their cowls. The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain. No wind; the trees merge, green with green; a car whirs by; footsteps and voices take their pitch in the key of dusk, far-off and near, subdued. Solid and square to the world the houses stand, their windows blocked with venetian blinds. Nothing will move them. |
EAU-FORTE
| On black bare trees a stale cream moon hangs dead, and sours the unborn buds. Two gaunt old hacks, knees bent, heads low, tug, tired and spent, an old horse tram. Damp smoke, rank mist fill the dark square; and round the bend six bullocks come. A hobbling, dirt-grimed drover guides their clattering feet to death and shame. |