All the dead-fingered trees make <br />an eleventh hour grab at salvation, <br />shamed by their coarse nakedness, <br />while the evergreens stand fat and proud, <br />smelling like a thousand tomorrows, <br />needles tittering. <br /> <br />It’s no accident that the dolour comes <br />just as the sky hides itself under a dirty blanket. <br />It is the season for it, and the wilting world groans <br />under the weight of a slow-rolling darkness, <br />while bodies lose heat and muscle, making way for <br />the creeping bleed of ice as it fills the knees and temper. <br /> <br />I imagine it’s like wartime London: <br />air slowly ripping with the distant buzz <br />of Messerschmitts and Junkers closing in <br />on the moderate quiet until there are <br />a hundred tiny explosions in the outer yard, <br />each one blasting the remaining colour of the <br />stubborn flowers, leaving only lead and surrender behind, <br />no evidence of blood on the browning grass, <br />no lifeless figures left wasting in the rubble. <br /> <br />What misery is this? <br />Wrapped in charcoal coloured clothing <br />with heads pointed to the pavement, <br />we walk swiftly toward yawning doorways, <br />looking for warmth or a quick death. <br />A year’s worth of pain suddenly sparks and catches, <br />fed by a kindling mix of desiccated leaves and <br />a fear of tragic endings, and we stroke one <br />another and say it will be over soon. <br /> <br />Squinting toward the horizon, <br />searching for a slit of peach light to underscore the ash <br />we spin fireside tales of triumphant green springtide, <br />sip cider to toast blitz free mornings.<br /><br />Tara Teeling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grey-smoke-of-november/
