You'd think ships’ scalers had been out

at dead of night along the road and found

the job impossible, then packed it in,

leaving behind pits, dents, polished bumps

in ice more obstinate than iron decks.

This morning's graphite sky underwrites

last night's intransigence.

My neighbour

Jimmy's out, keeping tabs on binmen. He eyes

the shopping bags I'm balancing. ‘Woman's work!’ he says

as if to tell me what I must expect when I retire.

I want to wish him Happy New Year but say instead

‘I suppose you know?’ And yes he does … both of us

stuck with obligations, standing at the gate

of the man who died last week, his unweeded lawn

the rusty beech hedge he failed to trim.

Tonight there will be whisky chastening

all the fearful unconcern.