Look out and see the moonybirds
That light the grey South Quay.
Cold on the pale linoleum,
On padding feet go we,
On gloomy stairs, through fusty rooms
Which ghosts and shadows fill -
The moonybirds, the moonybirds
On grimy Gasworks Hill.
Your father lies sound sleeping.
Awakened now I shiver
Behind the Regency facade
That fronts the trade-bound river.
The old men on the upper floors,
Their business done, are still:
The moonybirds, the moonybirds
On grimy Gasworks Hill.
I dreamt I was in Ambergate,
With wooded mountains all around,
And I and all my family
Assembled on the grassy ground
Near where the railway meets the stream,
Then at dusk we ambled home,
In Ambergate, in Ambergate,
Where girls are safe to roam.
Look out and see the moonybirds,
Dear child against my breast.
Secretive neighbours lie abed.
Their twitching curtains rest.
And all the inns are empty
And the coaling-boats lie still
As we gaze upon the moonybirds
That glow on Gasworks Hill.
Comments
camilla | February 20, 2010 - 16:38
Love moony birds and sense of being somewhere quite different
tcook | February 22, 2010 - 11:52
You've got the rhyme and rhythm absolutely right - and that's a mighty achievement - but I really don't get the sense. Maybe you can explain a little?
Luly Whisper | February 27, 2010 - 15:26
Sorry if this is a bit obscure. Apparently I used to call street lamps "moonybirds" when I was a small child. The reader of this poem is supposed to picture a shy young mother transplanted from her birthplace (Ambergate) and a warm family to a flat in an unfamiliar, run-down and rather unfriendly town. It is the middle of the night and the only company she has is her child, well-loved but restless and too young to understand Mummy's feelings. Hope this explanation helps.
Luly Whisper | February 27, 2010 - 15:29
Thanks to both of you for those encouraging words.
Tom Brown | March 14, 2010 - 20:33
I don't want to sound stupid, but what are "moonybirds"? Can't be owls.
Luly Whisper | March 14, 2010 - 21:46
See my comment above - it refers to the streetlamps. Thanks for your comments, all of you. I've taken a risk, publishing such a personal piece, and it's useful to know whether people understand it or not!
Tom Brown | March 14, 2010 - 22:05
I never read the comments. I was hoping for maybe "Vlads" or "Half-brain bats" we got lots in the family. Once we had a Bat-attack. Anyway, sorry to be disappointed!
Such a personal piece? Sorry I didn't know. I never read other people's mail. It's against the law you know..
Love your handle though..
I'm off to bed!
h jenkins | June 13, 2010 - 20:17
Luly,
I'm sorry but I'd not picked up on your stuff before. You commented on something of mine and that provided the spur.
This is the piece I like best. When I was a child, we had a Victorian lamppost directly outside our door. My mother used to dislike the fact that it shone into our front room but I loved the fact that it was a plaything to me and other children.
Your poem conjured up all sorts of memories and I thought I could discern elements of Ewan MacColl (Dirty Old Town), Alfred Noyes and paintings by Grimshaw.
I like it very much indeed.
Helvigo Jenkins
Luly Whisper | June 14, 2010 - 08:47
Thanks for your interesting comment.