station road
dark the looped light
from the swan-neck lampposts
single globes along a dark dread
furtive
catapults fisted
silence
darkness
breathless
ping plutt out
next one
ping putt out
run
hands trailing along the wall capped
with slag bot triangles black as the night
as cold as fear driving feet up stumble tracks
to a viewpoint gasping at gaps in the chain
of tomorrow’s curses from the workmen
with their ladder’s rungs ringing our necks
bent back in laughter
loud enough to last seventy years
and a light coming on
that refuses to be extinguished
this side of our graves
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