SUNNY NOVEMBER MORNING
Coming down the hill at the end of my autumn’s walk
I see a distant field grey with frosted stubble, wreathed in mist
Or is it smoke from the fading heather fires?
Leaning on the gate, I disturb a family of pheasants, hiding in the fallen leaves
Bang, bang, their beating wings are shots across the battle field,
Then, silence as the village church clock strikes eleven
On the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
Across a pall of orange, gold and fading green, more leaves flurry and
Fall across the gravestones.
Rest in peace.