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.