Heavenly Blue

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,

Though pale,

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.