The year begins badly, worse even than the last; a historic outcast. 1914, ’39; hell-bent years build their fires beneath our days. We honour the past, commemorate what we hope to outlive. The air is cold and clear. The trees don’t know what hits them when the dregs of the storm fly by, wrenching tender-grown leaves from nodes. The days are getting lighter, but the mornings feel harder to access. I wake with heavy bags beneath my eyes. What poisons am I unwittingly feeding my child today? Years from now we might understand the implications of some of even our most simple actions. I hesitate to wake. But hesitation lets those awake already go out into the day and stake it. My son is learning to type. From the terror of the playground to the insecurities of darkness he chooses each letter with care: "Friendship and love are the best things in life they are they are it is true it is true who ever reads you should believe this."
Heidi Williamson is a poet, writing tutor and mentor. She studied poetry and prose at UEA and regularly works in schools, museums, private companies, as a writer-in-residence, and with arts and literature organisations throughout Britain.