Crushing a diamond
Between thumb and
forefinger
Remains a rare
talent,
One
Not to be used
Promiscuously.
As for the residue,
Precious dust that it
is,
Almost certainly
Best stirred
widdershins
Into molten tallow;
Not, mind you,
Synthetic wax
White enough for
feint hearts
Palpitating
At a prospect of
light
Emanating from fat
Rendered through
slaughter.
Adamant glistered
tallow-dip,
Hand fashioned
Into slender candles,
Sparkling
By their own flame
When set in sconces,
High overhead,
To mark an occasion.
As for thumb and
forefinger,
They can be soothed,
Sterilised,
By nipping out
A burning wick.
The diamond and the
flame,
Both pinched
In one movement,
In one moment,
In one morsel
Of history
With which five,
Five hundred,
Five thousand might
be fed.
Dave Alton
(Award winning poem at the Warkworth Show, August 2012)
