The pins of deceased Decembers,
kitsch as murders on lawmen’s maps,
emit tacit proclamations
of colour that time dismembers,
of faith that age can bid collapse.
The kef of matutinal rites,
or bold gold-stickered elation,
taken care of with glum striped lights.
They stapled down the unexplored,
where murk now claims protectorate
and cobwebs thieve forgotten nooks.
The specks are where their hope was stored;
gleeful, jejune electorate,
unfathoming of early prayers,
and screeching over crucial books
when told to turn over their chairs.
The chairs remain, as do the brief
proportions of a room outgrown,
the arbitrating table strips,
the lost estate, hindsighted grief,
the late realisation, to know
never again joy of that ilk,
if joy it was, with moody lips,
unlooped elbows and jaded milk.