The year now ending was a thing unreal,
Consisting of terrestrial motion,
Roughly a circle, a revolving wheel,
Divided by milestones of convention,
Of award ceremonies for fiction,
Acting and sport, of deadly disaster,
Assassins and political friction,
Athletes running and ice melting faster.
Since wine and roses, York and Lancaster,
Since pocketfuls of posies, since the deal
That led to war and to mass conscription,
Destruction of the land by rich master,
Each year’s end is a chance, we hope, to heal
The sickness of the last revolution.
Mon 31 Dec 2007
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