Where new writing finds its voice

Dual-Carriageway Nights

Rikki Weir

Sticks of light drive on my wall,
pole-vault up on my ceiling
planetarium with no stars,
just meteors like slow-burning
comets, strobe-lighting when
a lorry, a car, a bus passes in the right
lights; through its windows,
passenger-heads sleeping for the depot,
projected between gaps, on my curtains,
illuming wood-chip balustrades, to play 
walls that flit and turn – silhouettes of
a first-ever TV. The rearranging 
of thoughts flashing lines about 
the dark box-room along with 
free-flow auto-traffic, the street-
lamps and the speeding
cameras like a lucid dream, where
you can float asleep and count
luminescent sheep.