Old Candles

A poem, hot off the press, which can be read any way you want. Not about 'old flames' but could be. Not about reclaiming the past, but could be. Might just be a sensual memory of finding lost candles when I really needed one. Might have been a metaphorical necessity, or a real one.

Yours to do with as you will.


Old Candles

Those candles
the dirty ones
the bits of them
the finding of them
in the backs of unused drawers,
in cubby holes and lost corners
my cold blunted fingers on the wood or concrete
pleased by the soft oiliness
or the grit imprinted on them,
dust guttering
as the pink match top sparks into blue,
praying the wick will hold,
the flame grasp it
and the room be reborn
from darkness into gold.