Quiet the cold streets after the fête,
paper and packaging stir in the breeze,
and pigeons sift rubbish and pieces of glass,
firework shreds, a million dog ends,
for scraps in the debris that waits to be cleared.
The noises still echo of sick, drunken tears,
hysterics and heartaches and gutters of wine,
another year over, a new one begun,
and the same headaches thunder,
the same old wounds smart,
that buckets of champagne will not wash away
nor foie gras and caviar make easier to bear.
Silent the garden, except for the birds
as they swoop for the crumbs thrown out on the ground,
garnering sparks to keep their flame warm.
I fuel the engine of lush, green life
and sweep up the shards of the broken and maimed,
though the pale sun is hidden behind the cloud.
Rain patters lightly, as cold as steel,
on the dull, grey streets that mesh the world,
and we who are caught want to fall though the coils.
Through meanders of darkness perhaps there’s a light,
carried on wings with a cargo of song,
the music of waves and the dance of the trees,
where bird spring, the true spring waits to be born.