Craftsman & Victorian: Gingerbread and Gables

Lyrics

Walking slow down Sydney Street.
The sun is low.
Casting long shadows from the oaks.
Each house has a voice, if you listen close.

The Queen Anne on the corner holds court.
Steep gables reaching, a turret like a held breath.
All that gingerbread trim…
…steam-powered lace on a wooden dress.
Fish-scale shingles catching the last of the light.
She remembers the eighteen-nineties.
Remembers the sound of carriages on the brick.
Whispers it all from her wrap-around porch.

Gingerbread and gables.
Tapered columns and oak.
Two centuries talking to each other across a single lawn.
One says, “Look at me, look what I can be.”
The other just says, “I am here. I am strong.”

Next door, the Craftsman bungalow is resting.
Its low-pitched roof is a heavy brow, thinking.
The porch is deep, held up by piers of river stone.
Honest.
It doesn't need to shout to offer you shelter.
The wide eaves keeping the afternoon rain away.
It smells of the nineteen-twenties.
Of purpose, and smooth, cool oak under your hand.

Gingerbread and gables.
Tapered columns and oak.
Two centuries talking to each other across a single lawn.
One says, “Look at me, look what I can be.”
The other just says, “I am here. I am strong.”

And I think of the hands.
Unnamed hands that sawed the Georgia pine.
That laid the stone.
I think of the shift in the air, that moment.
From intricate, public fantasy…
to a kind of private, earthy grace.
The gardens watched it all happen.
The magnolias, the dogwoods.
They heard the first hammer fall, and the last.

Still standing.
Still talking.
Cherokee Avenue sleeps.
A conversation in wood and stone.
Under the yellow porch lights.
Still here.
Still strong.