HOPE (A Villanelle)

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 ny sure return.

© Marion Sharville

GATE-CRASHERS

Past eight o’clock and the sun still warm.
Dappled leaves rock gently, silvered in sunlight.
Fuchsias dance on spindly legs, a ‘pas de dozen,’
a free-for-all on the breeze.

Chalk-white against the trees
the painted dove-cote stretches tall.
New-mown grass awaits the shadowing of the young fox,
not yet brave enough to tackle next-door’s rooster.

Daisies nodding off; the neat and tidy
scratch and snap of shears;
tree-tops twittering with fledglings;
murmurs of a closing day.

Crashing through this lullaby,
joy-riders play their Russian Roulette;
two-wheel cornering and screech of tyres

and little Jimmy, down the road,
with his hammer bashes old cars
—can’t wait to be big enough.

© Marion Sharville

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