In the best leafy suburb
the houses sit snugly together
in neat and predictable rows,
separate and inert,
and all is silky quiet,
all is neighbourly,
all is at peace
as it should be,
as dusk begins to fall.
Engines rev to life
at the first peep of the sun
for early morning commuters,
and a few dogs bark the revelry,
as kettles whistle
and kitchens come to
life for breakfast rituals.
And the sun shines its blessing
down upon this suburb,
for those home
and those who would
like to be home
but have to pay the mortgage.
Then the morning clatter
of children scampering to school
gives way to scattered dull sounds
of morning TV and the
high pitch of kettles calling again
for friends to come and chatter and natter,
till the afternoon pickups
break the sounds of housework
and cooking and random
domestic things.
But in one house at the end
of a tree encrusted street
in this neat and welcoming suburb,
nothing of these sounds
has been heard,
nothing of kettles,
or the rumble of engines,
or the squeak of children playing,
or dogs and their echoing calls,
only of silence.
In this neat and peaceful suburb,
along this pristine street,
in this house like every other,
the lights are out
and silence rings
like an alarm clock,
for terror and death wait within.
19/10/2016