Notes on a Well-Worn Year

This year asked much. It took. It also gave.
I crossed a border edged with wind and stone,
Learnt new names for quiet, salt, and brave,
And called a different stretch of sky my own.

I learnt the patience of the northern rain,
The way the sea can hold a listening shape.
I stood still long enough to feel the pain,
And did not flinch, or barter, or escape.

Some doors closed hard. One voice went out of reach.
Some truths arrived I could not rearrange.
I learnt how grief can tutor without speech,
And how love sharpens rather than stays strange.

A smaller hand arrived, curled round the light.
Old stories surfaced, branching, half-unfurled.
I traced our names by fire and by night,
Trying to map my place within the world.

I spoke to rooms, then sat with souls at night,
Held silence like a tool I had to earn.
I learnt how careful presence, rightly held,
Can be the ground from which we slowly learn.

I boxed up homes, unboxed the self again,
Set words to rails, gave breath to borrowed sound.
The world kept breaking loudly on our screens,
But still, we chose what tenderness we found.

I did not fix the cracks. I marked the ground.
I laid down beams where storms had worn things thin.
This year was mixed, and heavy, and profound,
But built a steadier place to stand within.

I end the year not certain, but more true.
Rooted. Reaching. Ready for what’s new.