A diaphanous veil of mist had settled
sensuously in the valley below.
The upper edge of a jigsaw wall,
its silhouetted frame that lay
beneath a cloud streaked blue, was
stark and sharp as the frozen chill
of air that nipped the ears, and
brought a tear to a rose red nose.
Under foot, a thin and brittle crust,
a chocolate crisp contained inside
a creamy, sweet and treacly core,
challenging the boots that tread,
questioning their proof against a
threat of insidious infiltration, thence
a haunting memory of trench foot,
the spectre of necrotic consequence.
Trees, undressed and still as death,
conserve what little life remains
their fingers, skeletal signposts,
reach patiently for their renewal,
impossible as it may seem to be,
moist and cold, but like a phoenix,
their fertile ashes hoping for a
chance to come again one day.
Once more, the late Spring’s vivid scenes
of sporting courts and verdant greens.
Once more, the early call of song,
the golden warmth of a rising sun
Once more, the vibrant purple haze
of August’s bounteous flowering days.
Once more October’s golden crown.
The moorland heather fading brown.
© 2019 John Anstie
All rights reserved
[This poem has simultaneously been published in the prose blog, Forty-Two]