(Photo taken that morning after the truck left, which inspired the following.)
Silent Suburb
It’s a usual Thursday morning in the Northern suburbs,
I know because if I pay attention, this day is different.
Sun streaming, I sit at my desk – window to the left
curtains drawn to let actions enter my on-line reverie.
A large shape quietly swings into the cul de sac, slows.
It’s metal arm lines up, then reaches out, grabbing hold.
Yellow bin swings high into the air above, lid flies open.
The sound of many glass empties exposing leisure habits,
shatters the silence. Quickly the looming hulk maneuvers
reverse, forward – our bin is next. With electric consideration,
the limb repeats a flick of yellow, dips to allow vomiting
into the gaping back. The muffled contents settle as curtains
twitch and judgement is applied. We are retired, so entitled
to enjoy the black cockatoos cry as they fly to their favourite
tree. Not too many left in their path, just clear views – safer.
How I miss the sound of men chatting loudly humping heavy
bins over their shoulders – often chased or held up by those
of us who slept in and forgot to neatly line the bins roadside.
Sometimes Postie arrives but I never know unless I spy, out
a corner of my eye, the bike quietly swaying away up the hill.
No more chance to chat unless there’s a parcel. It’s been thirty
years since I moved here – my familiar postie now drives
a small van – quietly. He always knocks whether my scrawl
is needed on his tablet or not, a tradition kept in this softer world.
No need for a hearing aid – the familiar is now replaced – no
warning of good news or visitors to our street – only the cameras
warn if you’re watching your phone app. Nothing personal.
Everyone quietly stepping away – distancing, afraid to disturb.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2026
