Better Not Get Old
I used to love streetlights.
They were the corners of civilisation,
the safehouse of Oller Boller
and Aki-one-two-three
where I can still here Linda Lovelace
shouting a triumphant “home!”
They were the point in the darkness
where I was safe from the demons in the woods,
the shadowed figures,
the child cutters.
They were the signpost that said
“nearly home... nearly home...”
after the darkness of a canal towpath
and the cracking twigs just out of sight;
the signal of residential streets
after the twisting cold of a night-dark motorbike.
Now they're the bright lights of progress
dividing the world ellipses by ellipses
cutting away the dark places where my dreams hide
depriving me of the moon, the stars
and my sense of wonder
at the vastness of a Godless universe.
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