I sat at my table and wrote,
on paper glowing by candlelight.
I sat and stared at the snow outside
my thoughts quivered like unsure candlelight.

I stood with the kettle as it boiled,
steam shimmered by candlelight.
I sat back at the table, hot drink down,
observing a cup of refracted candlelight.

I watched the yellowed walls as they danced,
in the shadows furnished from candlelight.
I took my scarf and coat, and viewed from my door
the snow outside as I was backlit by candlelight.

I ventured outside in the chill of midwinter,
bereft from the warmth of candlelight.
The once expanse of green trees and field
were white with snow gleaming from the sense of moonlight.

 Alex Harford.