Stone Brig is dark tonight
And the shadow of some nameless
Bird is all that flickers
Under a streetlamp.
Like any other winter
On any other lane
And such laughter as there is
Stays canned behind the velveteen.
Between the heavy flakes
There is no colour:
All is feathery white
Or doom-black
Save for the strange ochre
Of sodium streetlamps.
We stumbling pavement poets
Are dumbed by the immensity
Of a simple absence.
A few silly, flashing lights
That voiced the us
In this simple seasonal row
Winding its way
Across the time
Of the dark bank
Making us a people
For whom there, then,
Was room at the Inn.
And will there will be once more?
Next year, perhaps
When a warmer winter
Shall shine the sign
That this dark frost has passed.
¹ Every year some of the residents of Stone Brig Lane, Rothwell (between Leeds and Wakefield) illuminated their homes and gardens for charity, and the displays could be spectacular. In 2020, Covid stopped the show. In subsequent years the displays resumed but without the same degree of panache. At the time of writing no dates have been confirmed for 2025.
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Word & Image Stephen Linstead
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