Lamplight Murmurs

Out while the whole street's sleeping,

one pole on the shoulder,

one small flame.

Every window's got a story it won't tell twice,

some rattle loud, some just creak once and wait,

I walk the row and listen for the quiet one,

the corner that's gone longest without a light.

One lamp a night,

never the whole street,

one wick chosen, and the rest will keep,

the round comes back around tomorrow,

walking slow so the choosing stays honest.

Strike it once and hand the flame on down the row,

other hands catch it,

carry it past the bend,

I don't stay to watch it burn the whole night through,

I'm three lamps further on before it's done.

You can't light every window in one round.

Choosing where the flame's needed most,

that's the whole job,

and the ones left dark aren't forgotten,

they're only waiting their turn

at the same quiet hour.

One lamp a night,

never the whole street,

one wick chosen, and the rest still keep,

I come back round at the same hour,

to see which flame held,

and which one slipped back into dark.

Out while the whole street's sleeping,

one small flame, and the whole round kept,

one lamp a night,

and the town sleeps easy,

one lit window is enough.