dash

3 a.m.

 

In this house (you complain) you need a trail of switches;

the last owner took out central bulbs.  The table lamp is off.

I grope past the computer to the door,

into the front room, with its scuffed thick rugs,

small deadly tables.  If I reach the hall

it may be that the switch stayed down all night,

sorrow to the planet.  But I am on the trail,

like moth, rose and badger, I am heading for the light.

 

Alison Brackenbury


If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.

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