Twelfth Night

Being only five days old, the year is still crawling,
yet to grow out completely into these new clothes,

hanging starched and stiff about it. Through the
half-misted, upper-floor window of a bookshop,

the now-redundant lines of Christmas lights sag,
weary, above a quietened High Street mopped with

four o’clock rains, its gutters blissed on startled pools
of runoff. Trying gauntly to justify themselves,

the bowed strings of lamps hoodwink the gloom,
blurring in the track of the wind like broken waves.

Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in a number of print and online publications, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. He is a member of The Brewery Poets in Kendal, England. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com.

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