Time becomes heavy in November.
Mud and dead leaves drag our footsteps back
As we try to strive forward toward the light,
The light of imagined Spring mornings.
But November rain seeping through the darkness
Of days so short they might as well not happen,
Drags us backwards into the sphere of remembrance,
Books of condolence signed, then locked away.
All Souls Day, when the names of all our dead
Are called out bleakly in echoing shells of churches,
A relentless role call as twilight fades outside.
And then the crack of cannons fired at eleven
On the eleventh day of the eleventh month, but the
year is never cited
Because there is no end to righteous wars.
Time is slowed by grief in deep November,
These dark red autumn leaves, all martyrs` shrouds.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
1st. November 2023.
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