New Years Poem

New. New music. New visual experiential choirs. New ideologies. New dog on the new £1000 rug.
My ears enjoy the sounds of Newly strung autoharps.
My fingers enjoy the feeling of New Love's soft hair.
My old fingers type out new words. My old pen releases new ink.
Ageing mothers give birth to new peoples.
New apples grow from old branches,
Branches of ancient trees.
It took infinity to craft the finite.
It took God to make man.

Old and new have an aged relationship.