No People, Sounds

The church still closed, she waits, a garden gate.

A post for neighbours, news, the postie running late.

The old not so adept ast fetching books online.

The vents are hushed, no chips, no restaurant to dine.

The morning light, the gardens – autumn’s glow.

Reflections in the creek, still running low.

No people, sounds, the town is quiet, old.

Last time was when the men could find no gold.