A strange pregnancy carried
in the womb of a dying year
The infant with eyes yet open
Lays in a cold cradle dressed with tired tinsel
and left over pine needles

In Trafalgar Square Nelson looks down
on fake pipers in counterfeit kilts
Playing the first verse of an old drinking song
While strangers join hands with strangers
And try to smile

We wait for a golden dawn
To break on our New Jerusalem
Will our song carry promise?
On the fractured crutch of hope.
Or founder on the rocks of honeyed lies.

Have a good one folks.