Towns of little commerce near to being ghostly
But for the cheer struck as a match
During the blackout of some storm…

Harmless, love, there is no great harm
In the bars to combat boredom or
The occasional darker stumbling
When time turns frazzled, sparking hours berserk.

Love, so we are sparks
Holding ground often only as angels might flutter
When cyclone-caught.

There are winds here & they have a light
To them, our hands being lamps, our faces
Being lanterns, & we swing, we are
The breakers, coastal, that bob in the elements
As pilots re-finding bearings…

Bars, love?
What prison in these streets of lean economics,
These walls coughing up resources, these tides
Commanding all, & we, just a bit dizzy, we,
The rather awestruck keepers?

I keep your heart warm to shelter us
In that freedom, & you too,
Are banking the blaze, stocking the cabinets,
Securing the moorings.

We have nothing but a world here,
A heap of stone soup.
No, we have nothing but each other
& the days, afloat, keep us.

Stephen Mead