Houses (F. S. Flint) by Frank Stuart Flint

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Evening and quiet: / a bird trills in the poplar trees / behind the house with the dark green door / across the road.

Into the sky, / the red earthenware and the galvanised iron chimneys / thrust their cowls.

The hoot of the steamers on the Thames is plain.

No wind; / the trees merge, green with green; / a car whirs by; / footsteps and voices take their pitch / in the key of dusk, / far-off and near, subdued.

Solid and square to the world / the houses stand, / their windows blocked with venetian blinds.

Nothing will move them.

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