Candle Moulds, by Adam O’Riordan

19 September 2014

From the series ‘Home’, issuing from his residency at The Wordsworth Trust in Grasmere.


Pig fat, goose fat, tallow, they lie like corpses
in their narrow cots, fingers in a drowned
girl’s glove, or barrels full of pistol shot.
Their smut and smoke will paint the parlour black
but tonight they let her sew a little longer
let him pace his mind’s shoreline,
each thought a wave that breaks against
the shingle of type on the printed page
as night spills its ink across the vale
and the stars are wax spots on a hearthstone.
Tomorrow will bring rain, a hike in taxes,
rumours from the camps of defeated armies.
But tonight their flames speak of a frugal industry,
what light they made, what light there might yet be.

[Read in In the Flesh, published by Chatto Poetry.]


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