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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