They're counting scarecrows in moonlight
across the arid fields.
Men smoke cigarettes found in jackets
they've not worn in twenty-two years.

They're talking about Old Wisdom Street
and of getting into clubs.
Women are researching old lovers
they've not spoken to in years.

They're praying for the friends now gone
across time's limited field.
Children dress up as the Israelites
they've modelled in early years.

They're raising glasses to toast the present
and the fable of the past.
I have begun to listen to the lessons
they've not taught me for several years.