Published in Iota 80
Lamplight
Like when you find yourself walking home, late
and you know you shouldn’t, you should have stayed,
stayed with your friends but you were too pissed
to listen to them, you weren’t afraid.
But suddenly it’s four a.m., and the street lamps
make more shadow than light and the shadows move
at the edge of your sight, your fright,
the night edges closer.
Every sound is a footfall and always
it's behind you: right behind you,
and you try to plan a way home,
never having to leave the light.
But there’s always a point, a darkened lane
or a line of trees that are so thick-leafed
no light penetrates. And now the rain
comes down and all you can hear
is a sudden slamming door
or is it the crack of a gun,
and a howling dog
and a siren rushing to the rescue
of some poor fool
caught away from home.
