The Lull

Lost in parenthetical days

of late-December’s drift,

the interregnum between

Boxing Day and New Years Eve

where nothing happens,

but post-Christmas blues

laying all low

like a collective hangover;

the persistent dark

a kind of glumness

glib lights and pine trees

can no longer lift.

Left to fend for ourselves,

we subsist on leftovers,

sleepwalk in the gloom

of denatured woodland,

amble on bleak high streets,

cash checks and return gifts,

sift bereft TV schedules,

tuck ourselves into cold beds

and hope for better things

in the coming year,

when we will be kinder,

gentler, more humane

than the sorry species

we are now, while others

burn their diaries,

plunder supermarkets,

and blunder into churches

to mumble numb prayers.