At 2pm, last year breezed past me, out the door,
gracefully granting next year could plant her seeds
before sunset, steadily watered with liquid gold.
‘Hey Jude’ playing over the speakers
and I bless the drunken singers, warbling chorus
enough to cover for our quietness
as we stand there, feeling the corners of our lips
curl up in the sounds of silent serenade,
whilst tiny songwriters etch lyrics into our retinas,
signalling how these soft notes might look good on us.