Grey Smoke of November

Grey Smoke of November

All the dead-fingered trees make
an eleventh hour grab at salvation,
shamed by their coarse nakedness,
while the evergreens stand fat and proud,
smelling like a thousand tomorrows,
needles tittering.

It’s no accident that the dolour comes
just as the sky hides itself under a dirty blanket.
It is the season for it, and the wilting world groans
under the weight of a slow-rolling darkness,
while bodies lose heat and muscle, making way for
the creeping bleed of ice as it fills the knees and temper.

I imagine it’s like wartime London:
air slowly ripping with the distant buzz
of Messerschmitts and Junkers closing in
on the moderate quiet until there are
a hundred tiny explosions in the outer yard,
each one blasting the remaining colour of the
stubborn flowers, leaving only lead and surrender behind,
no evidence of blood on the browning grass,
no lifeless figures left wasting in the rubble.

What misery is this?
Wrapped in charcoal coloured clothing
with heads pointed to the pavement,
we walk swiftly toward yawning doorways,
looking for warmth or a quick death.
A year’s worth of pain suddenly sparks and catches,
fed by a kindling mix of desiccated leaves and
a fear of tragic endings, and we stroke one
another and say it will be over soon.

Squinting toward the horizon,
searching for a slit of peach light to underscore the ash
we spin fireside tales of triumphant green springtide,
sip cider to toast blitz free mornings.