Goblins
       

There's a few more lights now,
he used to say,
but they could still be counted,
five, six, high up beyond
those middle storeys,
resting like foundations,
strong and still and forgotten.
You can count the dark towers
as you trace the riverbank—
they soon turn from glass to stone,
sooth-stained bricks that cast
deep shadows before the blue night—
that way is eerie,
even for those who know the walk—
there are white streetlights
to accentuate the smoke-like air,
cold fog that dances
in the branches, framing the cliché—
are there goblins here,
I'd always wonder?
Sinister hands at work
while the porchlights fade
all along the terraces—
do they gather
between the empty factories
and boarded windows,
scavenging for loot,
picking at the construction
site around the Park,
making plans for fresh ventures?
Do they watch their towers
in the distance,
some dark, some less so?

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Copyright © 2018 James O'Sullivan All rights reserved
from Courting Katie
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission