SUSAN ATKINSON

New Year’s Day, 2022

My foot claw-curls the edge
of the passing year.

This dark time that should
be easy to leave behind

rolls beneath my sole
shifts balance and sand.

Fear has blanket-knitted
around our shoulders

become a comfortable mantle
hard to shrug.

On a beach the sudden
breach of waves,

like the unknown, startles.
An unexpected spray flies

into the gasp of my mouth
opened by the surprise

flight of a graffitied bluebird
alighting from the harbour wall.

The bird spreads its thinly stencilled
tail feathers to the expanse of sky

the sweetness of hope
curves the o of my lips.