February: I field the familiar questions;

my birthday and children contemplate presents.

Last year they made a photographic mosaic,

a diary from warmness to winter's decaying;

the feeding of bottles and reading of stories,

my hair set in bobbles, the kids all guffawing;

teaching the beautiful game in the garden,

patiently building sandcastles and snowmen;

watching barbarians ruin my labours,

taking the stage like I'm somebody famous.

My long dark waves are grown whiter and thinning

and this worshipping congregation has risen

from kneeling as if all their sins were forgiven,

and I a declining church or religion.