The aconites
sing of us
in Early January.
Sing their first
song of candled
love.
Sing to the time
between midnight and noon
where coy clouds wake the world
and water reflects medallions
in its glass.

In Early January,
snowdrops
lark the dormant
hedgerows hanging
like pearls
from their delicate
stems. And sweet dew paves
the meadows
in jewellery.

Its cold in Early January.
Sometimes the 6B pencil shadings
of the sky
leak petal-snow
which, despite our coats,
coat us in silver chill.

Early January to me
is in the smokey firework
dust swirling from the
London chimney-stacks.
The tired world is
still sleeping.

Early January
is you.
Squished in your white
blanket while you pour
cereal, morning
breath still misting the
glass on the sill.