Flicker

The flame of hope is burning low,

The faggot store is running out.

What I shall use I do not know

To turn the chill of doubt.

Perhaps a word that you could say

Would keep the dwindling pile--

Used prodigally, one hoarded day,

With care, a longer while.

I knew a time when everywhere

Good tinder was at hand;

If sunless skies succeeded fair,

Light still was in the land.

But now the drearest flickering

Where buried embers sleep

Makes sport of your eternal spring.

The flame is gone; I can but weep.

(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)