Lynn Woollacott on the absence of streetlights

The Night They Turned Off the Street Lights in Our Town
 
five thousand pink-footed geese landed
in the cemetery grounds,
crowded on wings of angels,
gaggled on ledges in front of coloured glass,
pulled grass between gravestones.
 
Sand martins circling the lighthouse
turned to the reflection of the moon on water,
fell with soft splashes into the sea.
Swallows that slept with one eye open
spiralled to sparks from fireflies in the mud flats
thinking they were a new cluster of stars in a half dream.
 
Other flocks flew closer to visible constellations,
flapping back in confusion of discovered magnetic paths
they took shelter in the stately home on the hill
where peacocks stood on signs, cried between thyme,
rustled as a lone owl swooped for an eye.
 
 
 
*Lynn Woollacott lives on the Norfolk coast, her debut collection Something and Nothing has recently been published by Indigo Dreams Publishing Ltd.
 

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