0022 November

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;