(A poem for the turning of the year, taken from my 2013 collection A Long Way to Fall. The artwork that accompanies it is by the late great songwriter and social chronicler, Graeme Miles)

Out of the smoke of a candle flame
lit to mark the turning of the year
I rise, wreathe soot and feathers for my cloak.

Bright eyes flash long-forgotten glimmers, sparks
of peoples who’ve spun ghosts and gods from night
out of the smoke of a candle flame.

Grey as the ash of winter’s cooling hearth
my quills dip embers, inked from dust of coals
lit to mark the turning of the year.

They knew me as a thief, those watchful priests
whose myths I stole. They wait for me to rise
out of the smoke of a candle flame:

the coffin-follower, grey hooded, plain,
sombre observer of a holocaust
lit to mark the turning of the year.

But there’s a smarter garment underneath
this drab attire, which one day I’ll unfurl
out of the smoke of a candle flame:

and you will see me dressed in rainbows, bright
as rivers. I will be midsummer’s blaze
lit to mark the turning of the year.

I’ve picked the bones of their discarded dreams.
One day I’ll sing, like they did. I’ll explode
out of the smoke of a candle flame
lit to mark the turning of the year.