The lamp is needful in spring, still,
Though the jar of daffodils
Outsplendours lamplight and hearthflames.
In summer, only near midnight
Is match struck to wick.
A moth, maybe, troubles the rag of flame.
Harvest. The lamp in the window
Summons the scythe-men.
A school-book lies on the sill, two yellow halves.
In December the lamp’s a jewel,
The hearth ingots and incense.
A cold star travels across the pane.
Lamp. The Northern Lights. George MacKay Brown.
Stumble it!
Tags: Candle wicks, George MacKay Brown, Poems
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