by Ewen Glass

dark

is drawn from
a dried-up well,
poorly guarded,
ill regarded, yet
chucking stones
down there is a
rite of passage
for us kids.

echoes

feel hard won;
we celebrate
disappearing,
ask what if
something lives
at the bottom?
At home dark
means

blankets

to keep monsters
out, the monsters
themselves.
Two storeys up,
I use the lamp
to see forever in
a reflection: my
head is the dark.

Ewen Glass is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and a body of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and One Art Poetry. Bluesky/X/Instagram: @ewenglass