We remember who we met
who was born
who died.
This is how we mark the years.
In the calendar are empty pages when
it seems nothing happened.
A year without a summer, no
menthol cigarettes and rose in pub gardens,
cardis wrapped round when the sun went down.
No picnics in meadows or bobbing with a buoy
in a green-blue lake. No flowers. No,
this was a year of broken glass.
Of splintered feet and hands, of
drinking alone. It was autumn all the time,
crisp and brittle. The bottle a friend in the storm.
We remember who we met
who was born
who died.
