Did they really take tea and cherry cake,

stiffly seated , upright on darkly varnished chairs

Immaculate tableware, finest lace,

tastefully restrained wallpaper,

glued with cold water paste, still now visible

from that other time and place.

Dark patched walls where portraits would hang.

Polished floor boards scraped by shoes

of family who sang, clustered round grand piano.

 

A man bent, measuring with a tape

senses nothing of this. Calculates size of rooms,

how price of his investments have risen ten fold.

Outside a bill board displays apartments soon for sale,

mortgages available at excellent rates, will hold.

 

Back then the master of the house read “The Chronicle,”

while making ironic asides. Plied himself with fine brandy,

Properties, land, stocks, shares, all at his command.

Adjusts pearl encrusted cuff links, pinz nez

his trusted daughter brought back from the grand tour.

“It’s a sin not to make money, a much larger sin to be poor.”

He idly dreams of Indonesian trade; leases, charters, moorings

storms. He's seized the tiller, stays on course. Finery, refinement,

perseverance, charitable contributions, as with those he courts

who sail through life’s squalls and back into port.

 

He walked through  a solid oak door.

Callow servant slipped back into shadow.

Bell pull swayed in a draught of air,

Window opened a crack, curtain stirred,

distant muted laughter strayed,

whispers crept through opaque light,

lingering near the back stair. Dull mauve glow

of gaslight in an alcove, where  dark shapes loomed,

their blue grey shadows grown large in the flame.

 

A flushed face slowly turned to gaze fixedly

into the twilight street below, observing a rickety tram

slowly swaying left to right, clanging towards

a sheltered stopping point as night fell. Steeple bell

rang, and through the window of that vehicle

could be seen an ivory white slender arm of a tall girl

gripped tight by thick jointed fingers

released when the clipper called “Church Street.”

and stepped down. As they rose, the watcher

noticed a deep purple imprint on the woman’s arm.

Both alighted, marked time, got into step, walked side by side

through the wide arched entrance of the house.

Neither touched the other or spoke The door closed

on their floating forms, silence descended,

someone waiting in the drawing room, rose to meet their fate.

 

The only sound now a flailing poster, loosened from it’s hoarding,

announcing apartments for sale, which drowned out a muted scream.