Swallows in November.(Rewritten).

Swallows in November? Even the flocks are fooled

By unexpected sunshine, winds strangely soft and

                                                                           mild,

Leaves late in falling, red roses fat as apples,

Grape Hyacinth already flourishing, tangled shoots

                                                        an opulent green:

Above this Spring like scene the swallows soaring.

Words that are strong and true are hard to find. I pack this 

Half made poem into my jacket pocket. Maybe thoughts

                                                                      will coalesce 

Into coherent images on my Sunday walk. The pavements 

                                                                    shimmer white,

Reflecting surreal brightness. The scales of nature tipped

Way out of balance             reveal a toxic paradise of heat.

Instead of flying south, swallows over winter in Somerset 

                                                                              and Kent.

The walk has cleared my mind, I can now complete this

                                                                                 poem

In the privacy of my kitchen, the mobile phone turned off,

But a sound of evening birdsong makes me pause before

                                                                                I write.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

November 22nd. 2020. - December 1st. - 7th. 2020.

This is poem Number 7 in my November 2020 sequence of free style sonnets.

Pink Umbrellas in November. (Rewritten).

Mums carrying pink umbrellas in the rain,

Maytime umbrellas in squalid mid November

When all is grey and dark and dripping wet,

Mist liquid grey dissolving sunset red.

Snow is promised early in December, yet

These pink umbrellas make me mourn for Easter;-

Plum blossom blown to shreds; church bells

                                           shaking windows.

Children - less aware of changing seasons

Than we, fat bellied, aching, hostile adults,

Lugging bags of shopping up the hill -

Skip and scream beneath the pink umbrellas

As if they pranced through ornamental fountains

One final time before the new term starts:

One final time before the swallows exit.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

November 20th. 2020. - Rewritten January 28th. 2021.

Poem number six in my sequence of November poems.

Memories by Lamplight, Grey mid November. (Rewritten).

Turning lights on mid afternoon - my thoughts

                                                             return to

Anne, (1928 - 1974), teacher, friend and listener,

Who sat at table with me, got me to write a poem,

Watching the words meander across the page

Like a desert river slowly evaporating.

This was in Boston - nineteen sixty something -

Myself, barely out of my teens, flown over for

                                                 a long weekend -

Some singular saint having paid the airline fare.

That was a weekend rich in love and laughter, but

This autumn 2020 - deep in November lock down -

The weather poised on a knife edge, winter ghosting 

                                                                 into view, 

I must come to terms with living solo - as I do, Anne 

                                             just a voice on my PC -

Sometimes merely a whisper, sometimes clear and true.

Such memories have become familiar friends, reminding

               me who I have been, and who I can be, if I dare.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 17th. - 18th. 2020. - December 2nd. 2020.

Revised January 29th. 2021.

 Poem number Five in my November 2020 series.

Lonesome in November. (Revised).

 Lock down has made me aware of local things.

The migration of birds above my garden.

Urban foxes scavenging for scraps.

Every flower in my garden becomes a friend,

A short lived friend perhaps, but one to photograph

                                                       and cherish.

These flowers must take the place of distant folk

Locked down in other parts of this grim country,

Unable to make a break, take the wheel and travel,

Unable to ride the bus or express train.

And I have not met my love, or other members of

                                                         my family

Since early March, and now the leaves are down,

The birds have flown, hitch hiking thermals to Africa,

                                   their freedom exemplary.

At night I live in dreams and hug the autumn air,

Missing smiles and kisses, a heart beating close to

                                                                  mine.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 17th. 2020.

Poem number Four in my November 2020 sequence.

 

The Beauty of November Rain. (Completed)

I am glad rain is falling this November lunchtime.

This is the time of year for the beauty of rain

To become apparent, soaking the fallen leaves -

Melding reds and golds into dun coloured mush -

Transforming the mush into clods of black earth.

I wheel the emptied bin from off the pavement -

Last night it was filled with rose cuttings, with 

                                                                  moss,

With various weeds - all taken to make good compost

For other gardeners to use. - I check the back yard gate -

My next door neighbour has left it swinging open, so I 

                                                                                 tie it

Shut with the cord that does for a bolt.- Late autumn - 

My life snuggles down into a sleepless hibernation. This

                                              is the right time for reading,

For reconnecting with friends by video link, by email or

                                                       the landline telephone.

Meanwhile, from the porch, I watch cold steady rain

                                     soften the dry clay soil for Spring.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 14th. - 16th. - 17th. - 20th. - 26th. 2020.

Completed January 30th. 2021.

Poem Ten in my sequence of fourteen line poems about November 2020 in my local neighbourhood. This poem is the last in the sequence.

Simple Gifts.

Twilight lasts an hour in mid November,

Too dark to read - too light to use a lamp -

The windows burnished bronze turning gold.

School kids love this time of year - it seems,

Kicking up clouds of leaves with dancing feet -

Gold dust smeared with mud on rubber boots.

Not many people are wearing masks today.

We are all so happy we want to show our faces

To smiling strangers - to neighbours we rarely

                                                               talk to -

The weather so mild we do not need our coats.

Perhaps it is the soft breeze - perhaps the vote

                                      in distant Philadelphia

That has filled this London street with happy faces -

Or perhaps it simply is the pastel twilight

Revealing the secret beauty of a place I thought

                                                                I knew.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 10th. 2020.

This is the third in a group of fourteen line poems about my responses to November 2020 in my local area.

Sounds of Summer.

Sounds of summer on the radio.

A lark ascends on violin wings

Above imagined tree tops,

The wind - a hum of violas.

Summer is a long time gone now,

The red leaves fallen to heaps of damp fire

Left smouldering on street corners.

Dogs sniff the wind blown debris - then move on.

I try to remember the faces of long gone friends.

The smoke from dying embers is clearer to me now

Than eyes once full of passion,

Smiles innocent and new.

One day in the park, however, retains true clarity -

Anne chatting and laughing - a lark almost out of view.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 8th. 2020.

Poem Two in sequence.