Armistice Sunday Pilgrimage, 2015.

The trees are dropping old disguises
Exposing naked veins and taut arteries
That climb November air to scratch the clouds
With delicate dancing,
Deft etching of ephemeral patterns
In the foggy atmosphere.

The blackened roots absorbing brackish water
Snake deeply into earth gnarled tentacles
That burrow deeper than blind moles,
Or fierce artillery shells.
The discarded fancy dress of summer leaves
Lie in heaps upon the path
Awaiting the broom, the black sack and the fire.

We do not honour winter, nor do we desire
Frost scintillated nights with smoke stung air
Scouring cold lungs, scourging red raw eyes.
This sombre month of mourning has its place
Among the fallen poppies; the broken dreams
Of all our yester-years.

This is the month for planning, for planting deep
The scraggy saplings, the spiky climbing roses
That could one day shape arches over the path
To shade the wicket gate.
Under this shade I might pause to hear the song
Of a single nightingale,

                                       A lone bird winging
High above where howitzers once roared
And set tall woods ablaze.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 8th. - 9th. - 10th. 2015.