The Old Year
2015 is wearing thin:
Like a rag scraping
Across the kitchen floor
One last row of stitching left
Grey with grime and grease.
The old year’s like a horrible old woman creeping
To the edge of a windowsill,
Bag-of-bones-body; one big crease.
A sniffling hag; incarnation of our crimes
So many atrocities! No wonder
She is crawling towards the edge
To leap off to her death.
It’s wonderful like a wood full of icicles
Together they make an airy tinkling sound,
Each one reflecting the light; spiny mirrors
Showing inner thoughts long buried underground.
New friends, new food,
To home, to home for ages I have not been.
My eyes have never seen these sights
And perchance maybe never will again.
All our woes behind us; a clean page in front
Soon the present will be nothing more
Than another past year
A year tired and retired
To the fading vaults of our memories;
A dying coal.
The tears I cried from this old year
Will be no more.
more by Lëaf Ednïwinga
photograph by Alex Harvey
Hire An Editor