Saturday, December 29, 2018

12)The Year is Dead by Robert Best

The year is dead. Your time draws near.

Cold saps, wind bites and darkness drains.
The trees are stripped, the birds have fled.
The year is dead.

Winter kills. It strikes the homeless,
The fuel poor, the underfed.
The year is dead.

So homeward bound and batten down.
And find a place to lay your head.
The year is dead.

Embrace the feast, the fire and friends,
To warm your heart and ease your dread.
The year is dead.

But some may find themselves alone
With no one there to share their bread.
The year is dead.

Then raise your voice and fill the air,
Sing out with life and not despair.
Those that you love are in your heart
And while it beats you cannot part.

The year is dead. Your time is here.
The year is dead. Long live the year.


Robert Best works in IT and lives in Wales. He loves running about in the hills, archaic stick sports, and traditional folk music. At some point he may actually finish one of the many novels he's started but until then you'll struggle to access any of his artistic outlets unless you make a habit of checking out the folk clubs in South Wales. 

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