Thursday morning at eleven o’clock. The cars
all have their automatic headlights on
to lift the lethargy. It does not work.
A pensive mood infects the air and even
the sun is tentative. It seems afraid,
a fearful suitor, reluctant to commit.
Before too long the hopeful Christmas lights
will shine, and maybe that will lift our eyes,
but for now, like Simeon, we’re forced to wait
and wonder if the Son will ever rise.
Walking home this morning I was struck by the car lights…
(27.11.25)
Tentative November’s a folk dance month
Unable to decide if it’s out or it’s in
Leaves bravely clinging to branches above
Fallen companions raked into the bin
The sun always rises but never quite makes it
Descending before it reaches the top
Fireworks shrill as Fawkes interrupted
But bombers press on and their plots do not stop
The eleventh we remember but still stand conflicted
Pushing and shoving to remain best of the lot
Decisions announced but next day rejected
Political turnarounds made on the spot
Superstore isles full of crackers and tinsel
Seasonal adverts promise festive fun
Christmas is here piped music’s proclaiming
But November’s not finished nor Advent begun
I always find November a confused month, a strange transition from one season to the next with Christmas looming large in the distance. This confusion seems to be seeping into our current affairs this year.
(18.11.21)
© Ben Quant 2021
Photo by Bryan Ledgard – https://www.flickr.com/photos/ledgard/10254453475/, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=58259782
Ode for the Day 