Strike

A poem about the general strikes in 70's britain when the street lights went out as school children walked home

I remember walking home when the lights went out,

lamp after lamp dying in sequence

like candles on a street shaped birthday cake.

Giggling as I ran from one to the other

desperate to enter each circle of yellow

before it too was extinguished.

And the ghostliness of the shadows

behind curtains,flickering in the glow

of hastily lit candles.

I remember as we climbed the staircase to bed

peering out of the window at the inky blackness

and wondering :

If God were part of the Union

would he also work to rule?

And if he did

would we dance desperately

from one pool of holy light to another

whilst the stars were turned out

silver light by precious silver light ?

Reviews

[.]

~ am back... and i love every moment of this magical piece of poetry... your little girl heart beats beautifully... i could almost picture you walking home and wondering about God... and yes, that last line is to die for... :)

[...]

. oh, this is beautiful, dear poet ... what a precious memory and how beautifully you etch it ... it must have been distressing without lights ... but you've written about this memory without even a hint of distress ... just the magic of child-like wonder ... and what a spectacular last line ...

[Marie]

This is astonishingly good. I am so used to reading bad poetry, that this really good poem came as a pleasant surprise. That's a great last line.