In January

A solitary seasonal man walking
the sawn-off stump, untinselled,
along an empty street.
All over for another year.

Recycle! says the sign, half-hidden
in trees queued up to beat
last night’s Twelfth Night,
or something else that marks his calendar.

The carols have been sung, some presents given.
A long month waits with winter’s cough. Indoors,
the old year’s hanging on, unpaid.

But here there’s one camellia
pushing its colour out, forgotten pink,
and waiting buds are fattening in the leaves.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince  would be pleased to hear from you.