Protestant Street

Stiff, clean, no creases,
this street bears all the innocence
of a folded tablecloth, evenly
patterned with windows criss-crossed
with net or lace, like a chain
of paper dolls holding hands,
opaque, making a blindness
to hide all colours except dark or light;
from hearths within, a flame or two
spreads into brightness like a young girl’s hair
seen through white lace.

One house is empty.
Catholic family – they had only time
to pack a few things from the aching rooms
left when the pattern split and tore apart
as blackness came to edge the splintered windows
and glass shredded like paper on their floors.
Now sunshine or the curious can trace
outlines and silences – the house is filled
with unclaimed daylight.