HOPE

A Villanelle

HOPE

Stay, stay the hand. The candle, let it burn,
the cradle of despair will grant no rest.
Don’t close the door against my sure return.

Curled deep within your misery, you yearn
to shift the load that’s put you to the test.
Stay, stay the hand, the candle, let it burn.

How slowly turns the mill, the ancient quern,
the product that results may be the best.
Don’t close the door against my sure return.

The greatest gift you have, you should not spurn,
enfolding bitter pith there is the zest.
Stay, stay the hand, the candle, let it burn.

I glimmer in the darkness, time to learn,
wait patiently the advent of your guest.
Don’t close the door against my sure return.

Precision timing is the prime concern,
I spring eternal in the human breast.
Stay, stay the hand, the candle, let it burn.
Don’t close the door against my sure return.

© Marion Sharville

I AM FIRE

Appearing cold as death, I gasp for air.
A breeze gives me the kiss of life, I flare
and once revived, I dance like Fred Astaire,
my flying steps, a pistol-crack of sound.

Content to be alive, I dance my fill,
then hunger strikes, a gnawing need to kill;
to reach, to touch, devour, it’s such a thrill,
destroying every place where I am bound.

Gaze deep to see the pictures there, they taunt;
reflections of the world you humans haunt.
Aflame, my chorus line of death, I flaunt
or softly warm the lulled recumbent cat.

I can be warm and gentle, at my whim
that coaxes back to life the frozen limb
or heats the backside of the Master, him
who straddles, owner proud, astride the mat.

I broiled, imprisoned in Earth’s rugged crust,
erupting now and then before men’s lust
for knowledge caught a spark which freed and thrust
me central to his life and power beckoned.

If given pride of place, the centre-piece,
I condescend to dance, that’s my caprice.
Pay homage to my glow, but never cease
your vigilance, don’t trust me for a second.

© Marion Sharville

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