4th November 2020
Mist this morning in the breath-held wood,
a wan sun hovering dimly above.
The last leaves hang
a scatter of colour.
The larches here were tricked
last month, reached out fingers,
imagining spring. Undeceived,
they wilt and weep a pallid, tender green.
Spiders all night have spun fine hopes –
tented hammocks on spikes of gorse, criss-
cross nets on the barbed wire fence. Suspended
and dew-strung, cold-light-illumined, witness
these myriad thousands who wait.
This day after, high up by the gateway,
slung in balance between two stalks,
a web like a prayer flag
senses its answer and stirs.
From the Atlantic,
the slightest of breezes –
the thinnest of whispers of possible change.
(4th November 2020, the day after the American election,
marked the formal exit of the USA
from the Paris Agreement on climate change.)