I long for paraffin, coloured blue
I hold it up in imagination
Comparing Mary’s gown,
The sky, the cut up velvet curtain,
Finding them all wanting
In my obsessive concentration
On the shade, of which I’m certain.
I don’t need the heat from the stove,
Or the rival shades of the flame,
Too much like Calor gas,
The row of triangular teeth
Dancing, not guttering,
On the wick underneath.
Do I need the fumes too,
Some strong scent to inhale?
Or is it just the look I should remember,
Of loveliness in a five gallon can
Off white, translucent plastic?
Just something about the liquid hue
Against yellow chestnut leaves and larch
And piles of orange-copper beech
That feels like Heaven,
Childhood essence of November.