Villanelle for an outer suburb

From outside there drifts the sound of hens,
The tv in the lounge room murmurs on,
And at the edge of things the light descends.

The next-door neighbours entertain their friends
In the late gold of January sun,
From outside there drifts the sound of hens.

And further down the street what’s broken mends
(a cup, an egg, a life, stuff come unspun)
And at the edge of things the light descends.

Across the road a marriage slowly ends,
At number twenty-four the worst is done,
From outside there drifts the sound of hens.

The road, you’ll see it narrows as it bends.
This is where the Wilsons lost a son.
And at the edge of things the light descends.

The shadow of each object looms, extends
The TV murmurs on and on and on
From outside there drifts the sound of hens
And at the edge of things the light descends.