Strangers

Mornings used to fit like an old pair of gloves - routine came naturally. 

The garden gate always squeaked on its rusty hinges

we knew the shape of the silence 'round here

a silence which I fear has now gone 

gone in a slow, 

drip, 

drip, 

drip.

The weight of change sitting heavily in the scented air

a new crop of flowers 

now bloom in our neatly manicured flowerbeds 

beautiful - perhaps,

but not planted by us

faces in a street once familiar - now different

We ​watch from behind net our curtains

staring at something unknown

something we see - but don't understand.

We don't trust this unfamiliarity  as it weighs heavily upon us

so we worry,

worry about the things we can't see

the many things left unsaid 

the things that have definitely changed.

Who are these people 

what do they want - will they understand our ways

what 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 us

so we guard what we know 

like a flickering flame

vulnerable and exposed

afraid that our panicked breath

might blow out the very light of our history.

We didn't really know they'd arrived

we 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 children

and made us better when we needed to visit the hospital.

We just sit behind our net curtains

watching the front door 

hand on the latch

waiting to see if this new wind

would blow the door in - but it didn't 

but it did make us look within

it made us question who we are.

Who are we?

Weren't we all strangers once?