Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again

Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again

Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again

You can see them from a long way off,
From when you pass the half-visible ponies
In the field where the school was

By the bus shelter with the bloke in it,
The bloke whose face is lit by his iPhone
Like a tallow-maker’s face is lit in an old master.

One Belisha Beacon off. One Belisha Beacon on.
Small parcels of light sent first class to each other;
Moons chucking glowing balls across the road’s net.

A car slows by the Post Office and a woman jumps out
And gives me a letter. ‘Can tha stick this in’t box for mi?’
She asks. I will, in a minute. Jogger walks by, gasping-gasp.

First I’ll hold the envelope up to the Belisha Beacon.
Not to read the letter inside, you understand,
Just to gaze at light on paper, light on writing.