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As we’ve had such a stunning autumn, it reminded me of the scene from my bedroom window one frosty morning, which inspired me to write a poem. This, in turn, became my first published piece of work in an anthology. I’d forgotten all about it, especially as I’ve moved away from poetry when the angst of the young man gave way to the ants in the pants of my later manifestation as a novellist. but I’d like to share it with you as Armistice Day draws closer:


Through Autumn’s incorporeal, misty flesh

The lattices and bones of Winter showed

As leaves, killed by a sudden, heavy frost,

Fell straight. They gathered, guttered, in the road.

No breeze or drift romanticised their fall

To flutterings for hearts already lost.

There was a world that filled this window-frame,

Its images the picture-book of youth.

It seems the fog descends more harshly now.

These still-white leaves are cold November’s truth.

If on this canvas we could sketch our dreams,

Would there be pastel sunlight once again,

And would it still fall chequered through the trees,

Throwing light and shade on innocent and green?

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