It strode across a century, enduring wars,

The shifts of fashion and the scorns of time,

A post-war enclave of a simpler age; but

Not the gulf of Covid, short but absolute.

 

Once, summer evenings in this noon-cool hall

Filled hours with ice-cream, raffles and applause

As year-worn boards upheld performances

And eager actors tried their ways with words

 

And chill October nights in this now-empty shell

Heard hard-rehearsing Thespians, their voices

Seeking meaning, nuance and character, the

Eloquent expressions of their deeper selves.

 

All this is ended. No player frets their hour,

No royal anthem prises watchers to their feet

Nor raffle ticket wins a night of drunken joy.

Most tragical of all, no common word

 

Steals through the houses huddled round the green,

Submerging egos in community. No tricky lines

To fumble or to prompt; the boards lie bare. And

Trying silence conquers all our yesterdays.