Do not let my first-footer be that ghost
of years ago, he always seems to come
at Hogmanay. What bothers me the most -
I know his game, the beating of his drum
dressed up like bells, I've heard that sound before
and he knows all too well I'll let him in
each time that he comes knocking at my door;
Then suddenly I've lost myself again.
Not this year though. My threshold does not want
another's gift of luck, I will go on
and claim my own, without the drums to haunt
what's yet to come. I know those days are gone.
This year I will not wait behind the door
for who needs luck when hope means so much more.