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The Light Show by Christopher Towers - October 2023

You  always loved the flood lights, razzle, dazzle, white,

gloved and snug, you saw the giant sparklers torch the skies,

glimpsing those fire balls, outside the Coach and Horses,

as you tingled with the  cold , mingled with the faithful.

 

With cheeks like beefsteak tomatoes, your teeth became

a chattering, a hankie for a sniffle, another with smiles,

then a shuffle through the styles, snatching a programme

from a ticket man, like taking a tissue from a box,

 

and in the evening storm the floodlights kept you warm.

You talked a plenty of  twenty- thousand people

at Bramhall Lane, in 1878, to see the first floodlights.

Your voice croaking as you glanced the lights above.

 

Their spiderly glow casting their luminescence on the red 

and black squares of the Sheffield shirts, reminding you

of Subbuteo days and tabletop toy floodlights replacing

top lights in the dining room games of old.

 

You  spoke, with eager words, tumbling, round and round,

like  clothes in a washer, revolving around your mouth.

Even in drizzle, you sparkled under those floodlights,

smelling peas and chip tray gravy, in the light show.