We fought hard for January,
past the graffitied hoardings
by the railway bridge,
through the paper-plate parties
and fuggy hangovers.
We held our nerve,
saw it advance upon the horizon,
its chink widening.
We allowed January
the dignity of no coloured lights,
left it unfussed,
a slow white month,
secretive and gestating.
And while shops relaxed
their tightfist of goods,
we plucked from January
the last silver squiggle of tinsel.
© Katie Griffiths
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