At the Year's End

"Every leaf-scar is a bud
expecting a future.
The earth speaks in parables.
The burning bush. The rainbow.
Promises. Promises."

From "The Year's Midnight" by Gillian Clarke

Promise.
My glass is still half empty in her company. I still eye her warily, doubt her reliability and wonder if she's everything she says she is. I wish she was more straight-forward, less ambiguous. I want to be able to see her whispered future with my own eyes and not have to walk blind into another year.

And yet this year she's turned me aside to many a burning bush and a rainbow. It ends much better than it began. She was right about that at least.

There's a rose still blooming in the garden in December, irises and primroses too. When did I stop believing in improbable things? At the Year's midnight I let go of what was and look forward to what will be. There is no wrong season for some things. I want to believe that's true.

A Handful Of Light

A handful of light

Some days that's all I have to hold back the swallowing dark.
I clutch it tight, pray it's enough as my world tilts
and slides underfoot.

The ice is thin.
It splinters and cracks.
Long lost frozen things, many winters buried,
thaw to life again.

I'm told it's a good thing.
Embrace the fall.
Let it all give way.
Have faith someone will catch me.

I'm faithless.
There is no-one to catch me.
Those I love are standing on their own too thin places.
I can't break apart.
I need to hold together and bear the weight.

My handful of light -
It's a gift given in the dark places when all other lights go out.
It fills the hollow places in me,
cuts through the night,
burns away fear.