Happy New Year

On most drives I like quiet because my mother

had a habit of appraising the changing scenes

calling ordinary things, especially paddocks, lovely


but on our drive home the evening is unusually lovely

and this pressures one or the other of us to remark on it


by way of maintenance, like parrots preening each other

or when I couldn’t use my hands and you spoonfed me


instead we continue, the asphalt as smooth

as a sheet of cartridge paper on which the car

is lightly drawn and erased


the words I pass over belong to another script


we are at the part of the bay that is barely lit

the sky is in the process of scanning a photograph

a bar in the process of chairs going up on the tables


jars drifting in warm water and labels

our fairylights from London, reversing into its wheel


tomorrow we will ride our bikes back down here

one of us riding in front of the other

probably me in front, with my higher gears


and the security fence with tatters of PEACE woven into it

will bolt past, and Happy Valley will pull up

with its mouth hooked, sky streaming as it rushes


and I will let this happen without calling back to you