the dawn is cold,
bright in the sun’s wintery power.
bare twiggy trees and sapphire skies
welcome old faces
to a world
little changed over night,
while desperation and hope
like hungry birds
and gentle mother’s wings –
here they come.
the allies, in their dressing gowns;
soft, sweet-smelling, silken
in the dusty haze of sunrise.
but yet, in new year’s royal glow
rest spots of darkness, black flares
that taint us, paint us
with melancholy ink.
still, we might draw in black and gold;
the smooth gloss of Grecian pottery
may still surprise us yet.