5320. THESE ARE THE TIMES

THESE ARE THE TIMES

Here. With the end so near; the wind blows freely

and the curtains twist. The light through the kitchen

seems green. These are the times I remember. 

To try men's souls. To mend an offense.

-

Along the roadway, the old box factory, whitewashed

now and solid, is all closed up. There was a time, twenty

years back, when I'd pass it each day and, catching the

light, just watch the Spanish women at the window as

they worked towards dusk. All times of the year,

with a different light  -  they'd be in a row with, I

guess, a table at their waist. They'd each be seen,

picking up a big flat, flipping it over and  -  in some

form of a perfect motion  -  bending quickly at the

scores, the creased flat turning into a box.

-

I always thought it was rather magical :

theatrically made white boxes.