Another New Year’s Morning.
Smoked and smooth-whisky aged brain with a stab in the right temple.
Start as you mean to go on.
The primary glee of proverbial blank slates fresh starts new year new me (new you, hopefully)
Rubbing my hands together and over the smooth cream pages of 2021
Ready to splatter in powder paint blue red yellow black pink pink pink..
A New, New Year’s day, now prosaically bathed in snow,
a soft, trite, duplicitous glow, a white and welcome omen.
For so many though, the strings of isolated hours (and hours)
and space between us stretched and squeezed, tweaked and warped
by smooth forked tongues slithering out from ubiquitous screens
was no more or less clattering than any other year.
And for some; no less spattered with their hideous profits.
And the midnight banging of the clocks
and hillside soaring of firework splutters
and filthy foxes mewing in reassuring fright
and sirens charging sternly through the dizzy, desperate night
did not herald a fresh dawn.
The town is now quieter than I’ve ever heard it, and full of birds.
I sit eye to eye with my smooth cream pages, and try to paint.