Silent Suburb

(My own photo - just snapped through the window. )

Silent Suburb

It’s a usual Thursday morning in the Northern suburbs,

I know because if I pay attention, this day is different.

Sun streaming, I sit at my desk – window to the left

curtains drawn to let actions enter my on-line reverie.

A large shape quietly swings into the cul de sac, slows.

It’s metal arm lines up, then reaches out, grabbing hold.

Yellow bin swings high into the air above, lid flies open.

The sound of many glass empties exposing leisure habits,

shatters the silence. Quickly the looming hulk maneuvers

reverse, forward - our bin is next. With electric consideration,

the limb repeats a flick of yellow, dips to allow vomiting

into the gaping back. The muffled contents settle as curtains

twitch and judgement is applied. We are retired, so entitled

to enjoy the black cockatoos cry as they fly to their favourite

tree. Not too many left in their path, just clear views - safer.

How I miss the sound of men chatting loudly humping heavy

bins over their shoulders – often chased or held up by those

of us who slept in and forgot to neatly line the bins roadside.

Sometimes Postie arrives but I never know unless I spy, out

a corner of my eye, the bike quietly swaying away up the hill.

No more chance to chat unless there’s a parcel. It’s been thirty

years since I moved here – my familiar postie now drives

a small van – quietly. He always knocks whether my scrawl

is needed on his tablet or not, a tradition kept in this softer world.

No need for a hearing aid – the familiar is now replaced – no

warning of good news or visitors to our street – only the cameras

warn if you’re watching your phone app. Nothing personal.

Everyone quietly stepping away - distancing, afraid to disturb.

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2026