0022 November Poem by Michael Shepherd

November, I’m almost ready now
to take you on:
every year
you throw all that you can at me –

above all, that sadness which lurks beyond
the all and any reason; steals into the blood;
taps at the heart with long-forgotten regrets,
drains the energy; lurks with all its
theatre tricks and stage props –

in the countryside, leaves falling like failed dreams,
their smell underfoot, of earth and rain and snow and mud;
in the town, the acrid smell of sodden fireworks; then come
poppies and guns, trenches, death,
and waste of life, futility and war;

draining the light from brief sad afternoons,
the grey depressing drizzle of eternity without hope..
warping thought, draining enthusiasm,
blunting the sharp edge of pleasure;

you’ll carry your campaign right through
December if you can…as the spirit wearies, daylight fades,
do all you can to ruin Christmas; already linking arms
with New Year bleakness to complete your ruthless task..

November, I’m almost ready now
to take you on: knowing you
for what you are: the yearly test
of inner resources and resilience,
the soul stripped bare; bare branches
stripped of leaves; king and fool
together on the heath in storm,
bare humanity… so

I’ll be prepared – turn the heat up,
stoke the heart’s fires;
drink myself sociable; consider charity;
think of others; play with generosity;
remember love; stand fast as faith;
be hope itself; not look outside
for all that’s inner to be found;
be all that’s Spring and strong
and damn the passing seasons; dance
with merriment and laughter; be
strong as roughbarked tree trunk
bending in a winter gale, standing
stronger from the test;