There is no ice and fire here this New Year's Eve,
only things sponged down to a pallour and greyness, like disappointment,
drained, thawed into deliquescence.
There seems no beauty to be made here at this time, and I won't cheat, pretend, enhance, delete, crop out the ugliness, decide 'I'm Feeling Lucky' to brighten things up. (Though I am).
All is beset, complicated, compromised by feed, need, and greed, by squalor and cruelty and by kindness and talk, by muster and requirement,
the messy, unenraptured threads and loops of custom and connection.
Me, no, I'm not complaining. But I am wanting:
the hills beyond, the crystallizing clarity, burned in by freezing time. It is chill and fog and drab outside, and I am missing light and vision.
I search for embers, a fleck, a glow here or there, of gold, yellow, ochre,
or smouldering orange, in the smeared, wet-ash world.
But it's fine. Dull is fine. Whatever stalks out there in the murk-bound lands beyond, in the country of the future, here, now, we - I and mine - are safe and well, warm and fed, with stores of love and joy and beauty to be going on with.
It's more than I've a right to wish for, and I wish it for you too. Happy New Year.