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