New Year

Doors are locked to neighbours now
at midnight on Hogmanay,
the ‘first-fit’ a thing of the past:
my grandparents’ house heaving with guests,
the coal fire crackling, the craic
mixing with smoke in the atmosphere.

I tell the bairn of it like some myth
about a hearth long ago
when Daddy had dark hair
and was the first to tread indoor
and breathe an air full of smoky laughter
scented with whisky and beer.

Forget the rose-tinted view:
if summers were longer
the grass wasn’t always greener.
My first new year was 78/79 –
The Winter of Discontent. Hard times
like harsh weather, blow over.

I take the bairn’s hand in mine,
kiss her firmly on the hair, tell her:
Happy New Year, hen! Happy New Year!
And imagine happiness somewhere
out there in the new, growing like seeds
in the darkness of life still to grow.