Greacen020

The Blind MOnth

November fills bridges, streets and even country lanes
With yellow vapours, blows on the tired heart
A chill reminder of the year’s decay,
shunts fog into the throat, fog into the mind,
Blankets desire, outlaws blood's summer riot.
Now the October rust-red and charred-brown days recede
Into the calendar, traceless though kind-scented,
All fullness frosted, all richness raided.
November, month of the dead, month of shadows,
Month of the year's betrayal, our invocation
Is a hoarse mouthing to the misty gods
For a single sign, for one grey dove on attic roof,
For affirmation of light in this blind month.