lit by its own fame , old kings running amok within the flames ,
but a globe is a globe and fire burns straight under black sky or black umbrella ,
a gentle arm that shrouds you ; your parents ’ voices from the front of the car
carry themselves into the orange night , the stars , pinpricks in a camera obscura ,
flick their nails through the gap
in waves that twist the rock into a waltz , a celestial carousel amidst the gloom
that delights when you reach for the window ; as the light of the moon beams down
upon the luminous Ford Mondeo , angels cry , heralds sing , and you hum along ,
not recognising the tune you were born to .
The Golden Ball sits above St . Lawrence Church in West Wycombe , Buckinghamshire , and can be seen for miles , especially when it is floodlit at night .