Spark

There is a light in Donaghmede that can bring more shadows than sight,
A spark that can start more fires than lighters,
She makes the book of love into a drama without the bland,
Forever seeking attention from two close at hand,
And age goes by so slowly for them all,
Each one waiting for the other to call.

He claims to have walked in with eyes wide open,
A fog brought by her blinded his way,
The orange glow carries him home five nights straight,
Dimming in hope as each night passes,
With the mildness of the beginning dying so fast,
Wind and rain soon doubling confused pain.

And that phantom no longer himself leaves her house,
Heart uplifted at the renewed vigour her words brought,
He is completely unaware of the tangle in which he is caught,
Strung along like a puppet by a friend played like a piano,
String and keyboard at the end of her shared bed,
A box of matches at her bedside.

She strikes a flame as all sparks do,
Searing the next scene into the grass of her back garden,
The smoke rises in the shape of the soap opera’s end.