That curiosity of light
which seeks in newly empty space
bold reds and golds – proud last salutes –
of yesterday’s defiant trees,
finds today pale memories.
Her colours now are yearnings –
damp efforts washing evening streets,
night-black branches and waiting clouds
that weigh like crows on half-known tracks,
and turn all thoughts to home.
Below, dark stains of subdued leaves
crushed and trampled underfoot,
like rebels ruined by rain and tanks,
can only wait in hope and death
to feed the seeds of spring.
Glorious and glowing yet, this light,
like embers of a dying fire;
only holding, holding, holding back –
holding back the coming lonely winter nights.
This is a revisited version of a poem I wrote three months ago with a few corrections and an added verse. I was accused of being a bit ‘domestic’ in the last version, so this is a gently politicised one.