Poke

To touch, like hot wax in the

Basin of a candle’s white-hot pool,

Is exquisite. I find childlike

Delight in toying with its

Temptation, its sticking-in

And poking at its aspects.

The tranquility of the candlelight

Saturated the room and filled

All sorts of riddles in my mind,

Eyes hungry for candlelight, my

Fingers thirsty for the prod and cool

Heat of it. Perfectly innocent I

Explore its ticklish pain burning

Pleasantly away at my prints, now

Smooth as a natural formation,

Encased in once-wet wax, as if

Eroded by time, moulded in curiosity.

 

 

We have all done this with candles. And not just the kids in the audience, either. Mums and dads, you know what I mean. 

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