A memory of November

 

Black and crusted now, the turf

Where treasonous fire

Had tugged at the dark edges

Of night and thick nocturne shadows.

 

Laughing fairground span like a galaxy

And cast off dark couples and threes

Back-lit in the candied glow.

 

Eyes joined in the sky

Where gunpowder unzipped

Briefly in sparks and gasps.

The breath, opaque and orange

In firelight, rose

From a thousand upturned faces.

 

Now I walk through Platt Fields

Park, blue morning, dark church

Heaped up to one side, like coal.

The wounded earth has waxed

Over with a pane of ice

 

At which a blackbird pecks.

It is the sound of explosions

Heard from many miles away

And behind hills. 

David N Rose