Poem of the Year

I take up my goose feather quill
and write this, the last poem of the year.
Twenty fourteen.
Och, what a twelvemonth it's been!

What to write about?
Now then, let me see...

(Scratches head.
Tickles nose with feather quill.
Licks dry lips with sporked tongue.
Has a cup of tea.
Wrestles with tiger bread.)

Well, I suppose I could blether
on about changes in politics, free jazz or the weather
but other folk understand these things better than me
and can write about them more fluently.

I could write about 2014
being the year that
we ripped up the rules;
we tore down the barricades;
we finally learned to be free
(and not just in jazz)
but that would be like Andy Murray
defending his title at Wimbledon
or Nigel Farage being banged up
in the Tower of London:
pure fantasy, unfortunately.

I could write of great sporting achievements,
like Stranraer F.C. (that top-notch team)
being unbeaten in eighteen
and top of Scottish League One come Christmas.

Instead, I've decided to write of my gratitude
to my lovely friends and family,
to my expanding feline brood and their cattitude,
and to those kindly souls who've taken
the time to read my poetry,
however badly written or abstruse.

I salute you all!



Epilog
It's Hogmanay
and I'm looking for a black bun fight,
tired of waiting for the chimes at midnight.
I've been (mostly) good all year but what's the use?
I put away the file marked "Maungy Badger"
and then I put the quill back in the goose.

B.R. 30/12/2014

Underpass near Ellis Briggs cycle shop in Shipley.
(photo by B.R.)