INSIGHT INTO NOVEMBER

(www.windsorasheville.com)

It's November ... time to republish my November post 

(with apologies to those who read it before)

November was the month, many years ago, when I was seriously burnt, and had the misfortune to be in hospital when victims of bonfire and firework ‘accidents’ were admitted. I felt obliged to write the following prose and poem, at the same time incorporating other monstrous November scenes.

INSIGHT TO NOVEMBER

The Prose

November is perhaps the most moving month of the year, steeped in tradition and teeming with expectancy.  Why yearn for sunnier climes or a terracotta tan when November's seasonal pulchritude comes free of charge. Broad avenues, awash with colour and piled high with copper jewels: red-gold gems, cascading from majestic trees, making way for fresh creations of embryonic buds.

Natural beauty contrasts sharply with more morbid attractions. Searing bonfires concoct a vivid tableau. Orange flames triumphantly lick the feet of man-made guys, egged on by a jubilant audience gobbling sausages and baked potatoes. Historical, traditional, and macabre, as are the fireworks: pretty explosives noisily winging, gloriously beguiling.

Scarlet poppies adorning our attire signify remembrance for the soldiers who fought for liberation … the war dead, who gave us optimism. Yields of mistletoe and holly and sometimes early snow prompt thoughts of Christmas celebrations, of nativity, and gatherings of families and friends.

   

Thus, November is a month of diverse elements: breathtaking, poignant, and sad. But it is never dull and those who claim that it is should examine its true potential, and wrest a soupçon of comfort from the depths of the sombre monotony that exists solely within their hearts.

This is November.    Enjoy.

  

The Poem

Broad avenues awash with colour,

Red gold gems tumbling to the ground;

Evolution preparing fresh creation,

Embryonic buds already sound.

Beyond the mists stem glowing vistas.

Nature sighs in resignation,

No challenger for graphic scenes

Of morbid fascination.

Poppies, red and unembellished,

Symbols of commemoration

To men in bloody trenches; soldiers

Sacrificing lives to give us liberation.

Carousals of darting, searing fire,

Triumphant flames of orange hue,

Incited by beholders’ hearty cheers

To kiss the feet of guys, and maybe you.

Motley fireworks, spectacular and loud,

Spiralling in the darkening night,

Gripping young ones, riveting them to pain.

Inevitably their shocking plight.

Advance through crumbly autumn leaves

Amidst displays of deciduous attraction,

But heed the groans as flames descend

And human euphoria condones the action.