The hyacinths, lopsided, listing to the light,
In “this is all they had left” shades
Of sickly, pale pink, and lipstick hues, too bright,
In sea green bowl with lustre glaze, that never fades
To softer greys and duller blues towards the coming night,
Emit a perfume, barely noticed on the kitchen air,
A pale hope left hanging, slightly sweeter than despair.
A New Year hope, a timid thing, perhaps a prayer,
A call to simply be allowed to do what’s to be done,
To live according to one’s will and simply bugger on.