Friday, 03 September 2010
| Observations On Earth Hour |
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POETRY | By Patricia A McGoldrick Dinner is over, dishes cleaned Just as Earth Hour begins Evening darkness is descending quickly so I rush to find the matches First, I light the tall yellow beeswax candle Anchored in the pewter holder inherited from my great-grandparents Who knew more than an hour without hydro power. Through the sheer curtains, I see Streetlights go out I turn off the kitchen light Pour my tea, pick up the candle Carry it into the living room Earth hour has begun. Tonight, I write, in darkness, almost. My blank white paper, tinted with mellow candlelight, Flickers with shadows As I write down these words It seems ironic to me, now, that I am mesmerized, once again, By a yellow candle flame glowing brightly Reminding me as it flickers of a moment in the past At Orangeville District Secondary School-- It seems like only yesterday when, in our first class of Grade 12 Chemistry, My peers and I were assigned a seemingly absurd exercise— Noting and recording observations of Something so elementary as a lit candle. I recall that, to my non-scientific mind, the exercise was one of futility Why we could be learning about elements and chemical interactions Not just looking at a mere candle Years later, for me—poet writer observer, you might say— it was humbling to learn about the significance of Faraday’s venture to record his observations of a burning candle But I digress… Everything is still in the house now I listen in the candlelight White noise is gone Aside from our creamy cocka-poo’s breathing There are no other sounds here I pause from my writing, sip my soothing tea and I glance around the ochre-coloured living room where Dark green upholstery blends into shades of dark and darker Our Edwardian furniture was made for times like these Wrought-iron lamps are capped with white translucent shades Circled with a band of green ivy Waiting in the dark until time has passed to be on display again. As I sit here, quietly, drinking some Irish breakfast tea From one of Mother’s blue cameo bone china cups My eyes are drawn to the candle once again. I watch, puzzled by the Latin dance its flame is performing The rhythm is soothing, almost hypnotic in its sway I break away from its spell and then On the cherry wood coffee table I notice the rectangular box, Constructed last summer by Eric, As a home for a sandy Zen garden and memories of Anne’s Green Gables I reach to gently rake the red grains of PEI sand Rearranging the small stones collected from Maritime shores I see that on one side of the sturdy Zen garden there Sits a brown burlap pouch containing a grid mat with handwoven Xs and Os Just waiting to be picked for a game On the other side, sit two mind-testing board games--Quarto and Quoridor— With their smoothly-crafted wooden pieces resting on their game boards I grin to think of the numerous times We have played these games with each other, relatives, friends. Sighing contentedly in the quiet of this special hour, I drink my tea that has just the right amount of milk Savouring the flavour of my favourite brew. I turn my attention back to the book and note paper beside me By candlelight, this evening, I read Emily Dickinson’s poems, a small collection of her verses She too wrote in the darker light of candles and lanterns In her small yellow house noting the small things More than once she wrote about light and hope And death and winter and light and nature and birds and hope Like Faraday, she noted so much. I finish reading her poems and note, by my watch, that The hour is quickly ticking by I finish my tea and wonder about Emily and Faraday and My eyes are drawn to the piano near the window With its creamy white keys beckoning to be played. I can still remember a bit of my Grade 8 Conservatory pieces but decide that a Simple solo is sufficient for this peaceful eve. I sit on the piano bench and start to play softly an octave above Middle C— Twinkle, twinkle, little star… When I am finished playing my opus, I glance towards the window. Through the clear glass I see that our neighbours, too, Have some yellow spots of candlelight showing through their darkened windows. The streetlights are starting to flicker This year’s Earth Hour is coming to an end Time to extinguish the candle or Maybe I will just let it linger Savour it with some more tea for, maybe, Another hour for our Earth.Patricia A McGoldrick writes poems, essays and reviews. She is also a member of The Ontario Poetry Society. |
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