Lucy Strange

In which I wrote a poem about an unusual visitor . . .

Lucy Strange went up to town
wearing a raincoat over her nightgown,
carrying a lantern, leading a goat —
she went first by train and then by boat.
She put the lantern on her head.
I am a beacon, Lucy said.

Lucy Strange was the queerest girl —
she had our senses in a whirl.
She turn our reasons upside down —
her tears were laughter, her smile a frown.
We clapped when she came and lamented her going —
all the clocks chimed and the river stopped flowing,

the cats refused to chase the mice,
the hens laid blue eggs, the sun rose twice,
every day was a Saturday —
we went to church but forgot to pray.
Her time with us was all too brief —
we grieved her departure but felt relief.

Lucy Strange, we remember you still.
You stood in your nightgown on top of the hill —
your lantern shone like a star in the night,
you stretched out your arms and then took flight,
rising up to the firmament —
we watched, amazed, as up you went.

And now you shine like the brightest star
and we are back to the way we were —
except that the clocks refuse to chime
and our children only speak in rhyme
and a black goat sings on the roof of the grange —
that is your legacy, Lucy Strange.

(The image is a painting by Wladyslaw Theodor Benda.)

This poem was originally published on my poetry blog, here: “Lucy Strange” by Theodora Goss