Autumn Travails / Winter Blues. (Rewritten).

Perhaps we are already in mourning.

The passengers all appear to be wearing black.

We huddle inside this commuter train,
Jolted unceremoniously towards London
Like a jumble of nondescript frieght.

As has often been the case in my life
I appear to be the odd one out.
I am dressed in sober grey,
Black is too formal for me.

October will begin tomorrow,
The golden month with the cruel edge,
A knife in the belly of the year.
Even now the sun grows mellow, indistinct,
Soon it will vanish completely,
Drowned in a bruise of clouds.

I stare out of the carriage window
At a city drenched in rain,
The Plane Trees leaning sideways,
Their roots submerged in mud.

The passengers all appear to be wearing black.
I find it hard to look at them.
I think they must all be doctors
On route to a colleagues funeral.

I touch your photograph in my pocket
And dream of California;
We two holding hands in secret,.
And waiting for he sky to fall.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 28th. - 29th, 2013.
June 13th. - 14th. 2014
Rewritten July 22nd. 2015.