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.