Peter Jones - Some Small Town

Sinking down behind the hill
and born upon a watermill;
lightly draped upon some page,
you speak in voices lost to age,
with inconvenient careful streets,
and rhythms marked in timeless beats
of passing time, that cannot tell
their story to the sentinel.

And once a year, through darkened glass
I stop and see a steam train pass;
and in the damp day’s hazy dream
I see the brief white curtained steam:
memories in every line:
a postcard from another time.
And from this balcony I see
you turn a page of history,
To celebrate those precious hours...
do not forget to change the flowers...

Peter Jones

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/some-small-town/