The night that takes our shape
afraid to abandon behind us the night that takes our shape
holding our candles like flickering flags
here am I a soldier here a priest each with a weapon
you march you pray in a patch of light
your limbs pull away like garlands
offered lightly to the clock’s lazy eyes
your hands clasp around mine
and you sing come dance with me come dance again
and march and pray
to hold the night at bay
to keep abstracted dark forever from the field
more than what we lost we regret what we never had
and dark shapes come to haunt us
marching and praying with their unbearable battalions
Phil Powrie writes books on French cinema, and teaches cinema and French at a university in the south of the UK. He has published poetry in South.