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.