Poem: Candles in a power cut

candle

The metallic thunk of the lights going off,
the page disappearing beneath my eye held
still tight in my hand. “Bloody hell, DON’T WORRY”
the reassurance from somewhere around.

The rattle of nails and screws or maybe
the heads and tails of grubby brown coins.
A curse again of “Oh bloody hell”,
Of further instruction: “DON’T WORRY”.

The fizz of a struck match catching
the wick of a used candle. With dusty grin
walking in victorious; two trophies glowing
and alleviating our stillness.

As the lights come suddenly on, and we laugh
he slides them back in the same discoloured box
with its once-red flaps, and mutters
“Bloody hell”, shaking his head, with a smile.

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