Staring
at the candle’s
uniform, small flame.
The occasional line of wax
flowing.

An hour.
How does he bear
such relentless sameness,
an hour without looking away?
Focus

only
on the flicker,
paper hating edges,
barely fluctuating orange,
dull light.

Both seen
and the seeing
like manifestations
of determined wills in silent
battle.

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Image Credit:Kit/Flickr
mm
William Antcliff rarely leaves the Isle of Mull. Unlike his poems, which have appeared in many anthologies and magazines.

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