‘The crude wind off the street Shakes up the kneelers Licks out the candles And turns the prayer sheets over, Then with a huge sigh, retreats.
A money changer turns to his prayers Again; ‘God, give my shares a boost’. A tired beauty tries to recall Her daughter’s face and, failing, weeps.
A dusty man, small, old and ready, Relights a candle then steadily, One by one, the rest. A small creature, A child, a son, hands them to him, one by one.
Into the eye of the gathering storm These seeds of fire are thrown once more And yet once more One after one are thrown.’
Roy Ashwell