November First 2015

mistNovember First 2015

The mist has reduced
the distant the streets
to dark silhouettes
I hear a crow cawing
but can see nothing
: the world for a moment
has lost its sense of direction
some of the garden bushes
have yet to be stripped
of their bright orange berries
pigeons have been gorging
on them all week
mist-coloured pigeons
now busy mating
under the camouflage
     This Sunday rises late
from its bed
but the voices of children
with plans and schemes
are heard urging
their parents to action
     Under the shroud of mist
lovers lie loving
in their beds
and the silence
turns operatic
there is so much to do
in the world
and so little time
and yet they lie
loving as though
there is no tomorrow
but there is no tomorrow
     Cars thread through the mist
even as airports close
passengers held in suspension
circling the metropolis
wondering whether they will
ever touch land again
hovering above their lives
but unable to lift a finger
to change a thing
     Sunday has become lost
in this mist and plans
have been revised
curtailed or postponed
as life enters
the hesitance mode
and everyone is suddenly
unsure of themselves
and looking for guidance
aching for leadership
and for an answer
to several mundanities
     For some the bed
is the resolution
when all else fails
the bed is a blanket
like the mist
one on top of the other
lovingly like lovers
     Excuses for inaction
are there at the window
or dripping from trees
that peer from the greyness
gaunt shadows
of their former selves
     For the moment
for this precise moment
this Sunday is going
nowhere fast
this November first
in other words
is fast becoming
a month of Sundays
     For the time being
in these hyperactive
times in which we live
the message for the time
being is to do nothing

John Lyons


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