Our lady of the streetlight

Under a halo of amber and with crisp packets and cigarette butts by her feet, our lady of the streetlight waits, granting private communion to the sleepless and those who are late home.  There are those who stumble past her, vomiting in the gutter and baying with laughter as they pass and others who lean alone at windows high above her, watching as the lights flicker on pinkish and coy. Her blue veil, the cheap sheen of an anorak hood, the hand she raises wizened by cheap soap and poor diet. Such benevolence in her eyes, perhaps just a trick of the light that paints her perfect.

Her face from far, just a silver disc, leeched of colour and unmoving as traffic roars and streets empty. She stands, ready for devotion from those the night frightens, those who are alone. Now, and at the hour of our death, she stands, the only light in a sea of dark that stretches out over the gravel and tarmac, unchanging and unwavering until the heavy indigo becomes flat grey and her halo fades. Finally, as the lights flicker out, one by one, she leaves and the sleepless and the sleeping and those in between must hold their devotions until a new night falls.