Nightblind, we wove
suspended above the king tide,
and dim amber lights
of distant houses,
the bridge, and the dockyard
blurred under the star-speckled sky
You can’t see the dirt now, he said
and it was magical, Throsby Creek,
sand-banked and fish softsplash
Lou Smith (University of Melbourne, Australia)
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
New Year’s eve is like every other night; there is no pause in the march of the universe, no breathless moment of silence among created things that the passage of another twelve months may be noted; and yet no man has quite the same thoughts this evening that come with the coming of darkness on other nights.
Hamilton Wright Mabie
foto – new years moon in ulmarra 2009