The Suburbs

MILES and miles of quiet houses, every house a harbour,
Each for some unquiet soul a haven and a home,
Pleasant fires for winter nights, for sun the trellised arbour,
Earth the solid underfoot, and heaven for a dome.

Washed by storms of cleansing rain, and sweetened with affliction,
The hidden wells of Love are heard in one low-murmuring voice
That rises from this close-meshed life so like a benediction
That, listening to it, in my heart I almost dare rejoice.

by Enid Derham

Comments (2)

Muhammad was here get this done guys
I mostly dislike this poem because, politically, I don't think that the suburbs are really helping our communities grow very much at all. It saddens me when I see everyone rushing about to work to pay for the ability to lock themselves in and become vegetables at night.