She stumbles blindly down the steps
meets and greets the coming traffic with a wave
Falling into this new day with a crash
our dusty lady, of the railway tenements, almost smiles
bruised and beautiful, she sways
left to right, into town, clutching her head tightly
Limp and vinyl shining hair, a shelter
the burning sun neutered by thick glasses
and treading on her hem, she crosses the street
Our heroin girl, of the bed-sit spoons, almost smiles
wired and beautiful, she turns
face to the floor, queuing up, clutching her ticket tightly
The rattle of the train, hypnotic, into the moors
through forgotten, unloved places, and to the sea
Tears barely perceptible, in her faint reflection
our haunted figure, of the candle-lit fish-dinners, almost smiles
re-composed and beautiful, she inhales
eyes on her hands, hands on her knees, she clutches tightly
A red lamp and the bitter end, the slowing coaches
the evening falls to show her breath before her face
It’s almost weightless in her pocket, but weighing on her mind
our anime child, of the emotional apocalypse, almost smiles
diffident and beautiful, she hesitates
Decisive metal, the off-switch in her pale palms, clutched tightly
Doused in black…and drowned in white…
A vampire for sensation’s bite, she used to say
‘If I had faith, I’d take my own life, I swear…
Somewhere… somewhere out beyond the graveyard there’
O, isn’t this what she wished for, isn’t this why she came?
somewhere, just behind the grave yard grass
high above the white and salty crashing waves
her drained and lifeless, body caught up in the barbs
a tangle of black lace and bloody metal
blowing in the wind, in the shadow of the Abbey
Dressed in black and lit by fading light
a picture in her hand, she clutches tightly
His indifferent, almost smiling face, stained red
and that sacred heart, drowning in her own wine
Saved? Is she saved? In many ways she is…
Saved, she’s saved, In many ways she is…
[2004]
Note: Written one afternoon in early 2004. My first office job was as a call centre worker and this poem was composed as an email to myself between phone calls. I have no idea where it came from and never knew quite what to do with it. I’ve always had a soft spot for it, despite its obvious flaws.
Thanks for reading.
Image Credit: Nightwalker Magazine
The Lighthouse 
Wow!
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Thanks Hannah 🙏🏼
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This got to me. Now I have had some time to reflect, I can say more than just “Wow”, it’s actually one of my favourites. Despite you tarring it with the brush of “this was written many years ago” I agree with you on the most part, earlier poems you tend not to like and often dismiss them, I am guilty of this myself. But this is one that isn’t damaged by age…
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Wow, thanks Hannah. I’m so pleased you got something out of it – I still have no idea where it came from; just popped into my head between all those endless phone calls.
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I can see why you have a soft spot for this Tom, I like it too. No, more than like! It grabbed me from the first stanza and has so many branches and interpretations. I want to know more, but don’t need to. It stands perfectly as it is!
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Thanks Peter. I used to take the train from Middlesborough to Whitby with my grandad when I was young. I think that train ride through the North Yorkshire Moors must have popped into my head and somehow collided with an imagined tragic tale, and I ended up with this poem. Thanks for reading.
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That’s a great image. We love Whitby!
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