For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Saturday, 30 November 2013

November

Now it's begun: the slow slide towards winter.
Heating pipes cough and splutter into life.
Men recall heydays with a summer wife.
Logs burning in the grate crackle and splinter.
Stores full of Santas, but no queues are forming.
Shoppers fret about the financial crisis.
Shopkeepers worry how loaded the dice is.
Kitsch snow scenes out of synch with global warming.
In the woods, chestnut gatherers, mushroom pickers.
Lovers longing for one final tryst
Before the forest floor is damp with mist
And the earth dank as a harlot's knickers.
Wellingtons. Warm, woolly underclothes.
And on the briar one last, wanton rose.

Taken from my poetry collection, Raining Quinces.

4 comments:

George said...

A fine poem, Robert, and I especially like the closing line — the single , "wanton rose" that is yet to surrender to the inevitable winter.

Ruth said...

I like this poem, an interesting mix of commerce and sensuous (and sensual) observations. Yes, November is like that (though the roses don't as long here as they do in your moderate climate).

Ruth said...

... the roses don't *last* as long here ...

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks, George and Ruth. I know you've read this before, but I thought it might be good to give it another damp airing at this time of year!