This New Year

Strike a match.
Draw its quick elements into the night.

Take pleasure in passing through,
or hide, cower
behind the skeleton of your desk
by the fibre of a lamp.

Be moved by the stars, by time.
The bloated moon
dips like a whale
through bedsheets of cloud.

You can watch this,
sing your first and last
the flower of your bones

is leaking a wintry
pollen from your heart –
like all these houses
smoking their mirrors, and their dark.

They alter the quality
of the night,
at the same time as dark and bright
as your child-self gone

your first self
sinless, and gleaming from the womb.
As if sunk by the moon –
and the same time adored by her.

© Helen Calcutt 2017