Without Grand Claim
This little lamp, unmarked by soot;
so coyly hides when asked to play
the game of belief. Instead I send
a raven with a dove in it's beak
in answer as a hoped of peace.
But when the pale rider comes,
perhaps alone, without the pipes
and drums of transformed time;
this little light, of comfort warm,
without the need to mark me out,
will be enough, I trust.