Hangover from yesteryear’s lesser days:
Rain, like wrapping paper, falls in sheets.
This house, shrouded in New Year's grey,
Was a cradle of ebullient Yuletide light;
Now the tree is back in its box, the wreath
Resting in peace in the wheelie bin.
Our firstborn has almost stopped teething.
We’ve barely dented the Roses tin,
A snowball of Christmas cake remains.
The nights are drawing out again. On the table,
Our 2yo scrawls with pens
While we await his late rival.
All our clocks are out of synch.
The boiler clicks off and on at once,
As if releasing an uncertain breath,
Or remembering something of significance.