Imagine a warship tied up alongside
it’s movement governed by the tide
at nine in the morning every day
the ship’s bell rings twice in a solemn way
but thirty-first of December at midnight you hear
it rung sixteen times to welcome in the New Year
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When the pen takes control. 
I miss hearing the ships’ blasts we used to get to welcome in the New Year. Too few ships in port these days, and to cap it, I no longer live close to the quay
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