My Candle

 
When you say goodnight
To the depths of my tomb,
It is as though we might
Be in the same room.
I have not forgiven myself yet
For the things I cannot forget.
But still, I do not regret
The day that we met.
But now, clouds have grown cold
With ill winds overhead.
And now the bell has tolled;
I join the ranks of the dead.
Yet reluctant is my hand,
When I think of thee.
Though you do not understand
The way you are so dear to me.
And I fear no horizons,
For you are my candle:
The shining of an angel—
A bouquet of friendly suns.

But it is my delusion
That breeds these candles
That glow between our whispers
Fading slow as twilight reaches
To caress my sorrow in the roses
I long to give,
While the birds split the night
Of her mantle of weeping flames.
And all polluted tears which should be shed,
To the frost below this mutilated sky,
Once thou hast gone and fled
Will be the tears I cannot cry.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle