softening upon the branch
picked by Hallow's eve
© Rachel Green October 2025
December 1971
My parents didn't celebrate the night
when this year turned to next year in a flash.
To them it was a waste of morning light
a frivolous waste of valued hard-earned cash.
We would, upon the stroke of nine, retire
while Mum sent dogs out for a garden wee
and set the safety gate around the fire
while Dad turned off the lights and the TV.
I was, at least, allowed a half-an-hour
to climb into my bed and read a book
although the threat of their parental power
assured I was asleep before their look.
And in the morning, calendars would change
for the new one from the milkman's annual range.
© Rachel Green October 2025
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