The Old Year

The Old Year sits, and knits her shroud
It will be done tomorrow 
Although it’s white and soft as cloud
It’s weighted down with sorrow

And every tear the year has shed
Has put a knot in snowy thread
And where her wrinkled hands have bled 
Brown stains mourn for children dead 

The Old Year sits, and knits and waits
And only half remembers
January’s child who grew, to
Wrinkle-faced December

When Father Time his anvil strikes
The Old Year’s thread is spun
While Young Year’s thread is gold and bright 
With hope for everyone 

©️Jane Jago 2018

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