Every New Year’s eve
We stand at the top of the lane,
We see and hear
The glittering City fireworks,
No scent of cordite mars or jars;
Sweet bright light
Swaying through the night.
This year no breath of snow
No frost tweaks
The ceiling of the faithful City
We stand at the top of the lane
Sipping scented spiced hot wine.
Polly Robinson © 2012