By John Lake
Dark like honey… dark like coal
Smothered with ash in a dead fire-hole.
Dark like chocolate… dark like pain:
The stab of an organ, a twitch in the brain.
Dark like the colour of Whitby jet…
Dark like the loss of a much loved pet.
Dark like a dream of impossible wealth…
Dark like a relative’s faltering health.
Dark like a flame on a negative strip…
Dark like the course of a rudderless ship.
Dark like the wind on a wuthering moor…
Dark like a desperate swim for the shore.
Dark like a threat from a once cherished friend…
Dark like a lover still there at the end.
Dark be nimble, dark be quick,
Dark as the sound of the world’s last tick.
Dark that’s knocking at my own front door,
Dark, begone and come no more.
John Lake is a novelist, editor and DJ who lives in Leeds.