January 1st
A wash of grey cloud
shrouds the city
Backlit by the weak
January sun.
A smattering of people
shuffle through the deserted streets.
Washed-out.
Ambivalent.
Hungover.
New resolutions
made with so much purpose
now pushed aside;
On the back-burner.
The street lies empty
blazing orange against the grey-washed skies.
Darkened windows
gape onto the wet cobbles
Watching
Waiting.
Rows and rows
of terraces
stretch,
Neat and regimented
into the distance.
Perched precariously
against the tangerine walls
an assortment of bikes
Balance.
Through the pallid veil
a spear of sunlight
Escapes.
Far beneath, the cobblestones
glisten and gleam
with a strange bluish glow.
Happy New Year.
January 2nd
The air bites shrewdly,
gnawing at the grey water
which churns and
bubbles
in brown eddies
encircling the stern fortress.
The air bites shrewdly,
unyielding battlements.
The air bites shrewdly,
driving the visitors backwards.
The air bites shrewdly,
that haunts the battlements.
January 3rd
A canopy of clouds
of the clock.
The city beneath
crushed.
lower
lower
lower
Shards of the dying sun burn
Ruined. Devoid of beauty.
Silhouetted by the flames,
and smoke into the air.
Glass structures border the river,
their surfaces a refraction
of fire.
January 4th
Garish globes
suspended above the busy streets.
Beneath, crowds bustle,
thickening the crisp evening air.
Laughter floats skywards,
and blare of horns.
January 5th
And so they came to see him,
the newborn king.
Many moons ago,
Joyful, joyful.
January 6th
The long nocturnal hours with a thousand sinister thoughts until at last, at last morning came, then once again the long days, then once again the sleepless night. – Edvard Munch.
Fear. Loathing. Panic.
for Morpheus’s sweet embrace.
Oblivion eludes me.
relentless Drumming.
Sleep will come. It has to.
wait.
January 7th
Metro, boulot, dodo.
reaches of the room.
Toiletry is a stumbled,
fumbled affair.
Staring into space,
the nest.
Nicola Heaney 