The Lamplighters

They stand, two women, and bookend the rod,

wick and tallow basined between them.

Doily trimmed and apron starched,

they dip the flax, hang to dry and dip again.

The roving fattens with a litany of motions;

white with the fineness of the first skimming,

black grains catch the surface between each sinking:

but still the women anoint the tincted skin,

till, wick-snuffed and socket-fitted, the ritual is over.

Somewhere its flame will glaze a room

and the tallow will gutter and smoke black

as it coils towards the bareness of a low ceiling.