From a far bank she knows it approaches.
She is one of many without walls
or someone to plant daffodils in her hair.
For her, one more year is seismic shocks
moved on moon tides, a metastasis
dragging grey bulk away to die.
Last year we went to bed early, tried to pretend
church bells were yellow celandine
found on a Sunday walk. But now
as minute hand touches another damp midnight,
she offers red tulips to bury near her feet.
Words like a curved tusk aimed at my ribs.
© Talia Hardy 2015
Wishing you all a prosperous, healthy new year.