November

November

Oh, I like walking in the dark, it’s mysterious,

Mr Chesterton. Gnarled bent roots pushing up,

soaking hard mud with swelling rain, ripe veins

mole-bore darkling tunnels, ripping into crust.

I’m always lush day-dreaming, it’s so exciting,

beats in temptation, blood rush me quicksilver

thunderstorming my bastille, breaching my hill

in wolf-scent, clawing earth and shatter chains.

Lay me down on beds of late scarlet pimpernel

nests, take breath, rest me on pressing oceans

of sweeping dusk gold autumn brown grasses,

bubble in gentle shapes. Now we’ll flash floods,

lie back in exotic alphabets, melting in X and Y

under pinking sky. Hooks and eyes part and fly

so swiftly; helped by our hands, wave goodbye

to restraint, chuck away good intent; whispers

nothings nonsense, goose shivers, quickening

until the fruit, red-ripe and wind-fallen, oozes

tart juice on the fingers, touch to our tongues,

open and peeling the flimsy lace skin, now feel

how time is nothing real pressed inside, warm

ferments our sipped sweet ciders shared, drunk

corked then sleep entwined in blackberry briars

parted; just only satisfied, brief quench my fire.

Oh, yes, Mr Chesterton, how walking in the dark

reminds me, brings you back, recaptures sparks

that blow me softly through your greying ember

where red hot pokers bloom in late November.