On Sundays at the shouting hill
we see them
out there across the wire
each week a little older
and though the gap remains unchanged
I seem to see our loved ones
grow more distant
For six days they stand sepia and silent
froze solemn on our mantle shelf
but on Sundays at the shouting hill
they are in colour
though perhaps a little faded
as they faintly call their love
across the wire
