They bring the fire from the foot of the town,

well kindled with whisky,             

and proceed up the High Street,

drawing the old year out the doors

like wraiths to its flame.

The light flickers against the shop fronts,

turning the windows

into sheets of melting ice;

flame-shadows descend from the Common

with their dark mesolithic voices.

The present gathers at the Corn Exchange,

puffing on its hands and

stamping its feet, impatient

for the future and to let the deed

shaw beneath the solstice.

Not long now… the old year approaches

on a skirl of pipes,

tethered to the torchlight and

driven on by whirling balls of flame,

past the houses of Fleming and Elph.

The crowd parts to admit the sacrifice,

which trembles like a bride

before the towering pyre.

A cornet hands her to the altar,

and an elder steps forth. 

The year is tinder-dry.  It crackles

and roars at the stars.

Torches are tossed to the flames,

their bearers glad to be done with them,

as lang syne passes in a plume of smoke.