Like an Echo

"She should be like a town clock — keep time and observe regularity. She should not, however, like a town clock, speak so loudly that all the town may hear her.
She should be like a snail — prudent, and keep within her own house.
She should not be like a snail — carry all she has upon her back.
She should be like an echo — speak when spoken to.
But she should not be like an echo — determined always to have the last word." - "Three Wifely Virtues", The Australian Woman's Mirror, 24/02/1925

A snail slimes across a leaf,
Its hearth and home upon its back.
How can a snail come to grief,
Who'd care to place it on a rack?

A woman greets the dampened morn,
Stood on the cottage's back step.
Somewhere a sheep is being shorn,
Victoriana walks lockstep.

The town clock knells across the lawn,
A tear escapes her bruising eye.
The gladiola, daisy, rose,
A mocking language, flowered prose.

An echo sounds from somewhere near,
She snaps her gaze towards the noise,
A momentary rush to fear,
A break, unseen, to perfect poise.

She is herself a distant sound.
Recumbent in her husband's life,
Reverbing from the patriarch's music,
The first as daughter, last as wife.