Meditation

This infant year, how very young it is.

So much to learn, so many steps to take

Into the dark unknown.

The light of Christmas gone, 

Into the deepest, most impenetrable forests.

And yet, how old this year is, so many aeons old.

Standing by the window, 

Watching blackbirds and thrushes shiver in the cold

And small birds scrabble for crumbs on the bird table,

We are slowly growing old, the years and I.

The world is black and white and muddy brown,

Winter flexes his muscle, 

His white coat hiding the land living in want of colour,

Fields yearning for crops, for new growth and abundance.

January proudly dancing on ice 

Leaves me hesitant and timid, afraid to miss my step.

They say the days are lengthening, 

I cannot tell.

Yet it is true, there’s hope.

They say that things will change,

That kindness and good sense will now prevail, 

I cannot tell.

They say we’ll live in peace and gentle harmony

With our Earth, our neighbours, and ourselves.

We can but dream.

How young, how very young this new year is.