In the Arc Welder’s Blinding Light

don’t look

my father said

of the arc welder’s work at the local garage

and I saw him there

clad like an Arthurian knight

complete in helmet and visor

touching metal to metal

with a brilliant flash 

of silver light

blooming in his hand

not the dancing sparks 

of a grinder

nor the shaken singe

of a branch drawn burning from fire

more like the trace of creation

passing between God 

and Adam 

a luminous white 

revelation 

like sheet lightning over the lake

and  seeing however briefly a glimpse of the far American shore

there are stories 

of foolish children

wistfully watching 

the black rim of a solar eclipse

of Lot’s wife

her body sculpted in salt

of soldiers come home from the wars

so wounded in the mind

that the world they once knew

went suddenly dark 

as though they stood in a cave locked deep in the earth

of red measles with daylight

slithering in 

under the pulled-down 

window blind

seeking to steal the sick heat of the boy in the fever room

and it was all of us living

for that ‘don’t look’ 

moment

when the Sirens begin to sing

when the nest of vipers

flickering their tongues 

in Medusa’s hissing scalp 

fall still

and you can’t look away

from the consequence of stone

or poor doomed 

Eurydice slipping out of reach

like a wisp of smoke

whispering as it vanishes

like a voice 

you can’t hear, though it’s clear that the voice is your own

Winner of the Banister Award 2021