A Poem For January
days are too quiet, too cold,
too frustrating to be interested in
anything much, except how I am
the only person I know having such
a miserable time of it, but I know
that’s not true, so I tell myself to
climb out of the hole of self-indulgent
pity, it’s time-wasting and the doldrums
are not where I meet any interesting
people, especially on a grey winter
morning when SAD syndrome threatens.
I will engage a spirit of cheerfulness
to light up my day, be eccentric,
wear the black velvet jacket with all my
vintage brooches on the lapel, ask the
cashier at the supermarket for a
six-penny stamp and one of those blue
air-mail letters that are also an envelope.
When I get home, I will make a pot of tea in
my Mother’s blue willow-pattered tea pot,
shame I dropped the lid and broke it ages ago,
I still haven’t found a replacement to fit the gap.
Sometimes, around twilight,
when the house is quiet and
my cat sits full stretch on my writing desk,
I hear the indescribable sound of his rough
tongue licking his paws to clean behind
his ears, when he’s finished, we listen to
small creatures that move through the
night garden beyond the window.
I mark the passage of the moon rolling a
silver thunder to lovers in a sky of dreams,
close my eyes in the far away music,
drumming to the beat of my heart.