Hangover from yesteryear’s lesser days:
Rain, like wrapping paper, falls in sheets.
This house, shrouded in New Year gloom,
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 decimated Duplo empires.
We’ve barely dented the Roses tin,
A snowball of Christmas cake remains.
The nights are drawing out again. On the table,
An abstraction scrawled by the two-year-old,
Distraction from his rival's imminent arrival.
Our kitchen clocks slip out of synch.
The boiler clicks off and on at once,
As if releasing an uncertain breath,
Or recalling something of significance.