Finn Brooke: ‘Streetlights and Butter Knives’

Streetlights and Butter Knives

I came upon a streetlight once,
crying quietly in the night,
it told me it had always dreamed
of being a much brighter light,
I don’t know what they’re called, it said,
or if I have the story right,
but I’ve heard of towers in the sea,
that lend blind ships their sight.

My butter knife, the other day,
seemed sullen and quite dismayed,
confessing a desire to be
a more heroic type of blade,
I want to be a sword, it said,
and nothing small or too low-grade,
I want to serve a prince or king
in tournament and crusade.

But my little horse, in his field,
never mentions travelling far,
enjoying his grass and clover
without champagne or caviar,
and though we talk of many things
under sun or moon or star,
he’s yet to ever speak to me
of a need to be a car.

Finn Brooke

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