At this eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the sky a milky blue, the grass a golden green of shed leaves and sunlight, I listen to The Lark Ascending, with such an ache in the plucked strings of the heart, for the men and women ripped apart, the children never born, the beauty lost.
Sky clouded laiteux blue diluted with sorrow bird-music falling.
The larks have gone, their meadows sprung with concrete funghi, and the world is changed more utterly than he could have known.
Leaves fall richest gold on the gliding stream, the new tarmac driveways.
Ours is a world of lost Innocence and deference, misery too, its old implacable gods replaced by new idols, the ones that whisper with the tinny twang of chips striking; encouraging our lemming race, not for the good of the species but to grab and grasp and squander in ignorant bliss. That is the sorrow and the pity.
Dark November days presage Black Fridays—excess of the grotesque.
Thank you xx It’s a national holiday here. I’ve always thought it mealy mouthed of the Brits so have the commemoration on the nearest Sunday. Devalues it imho. We mustn’t forget, just like we mustn’t forget what happened 20 years later. So many of us have though.
I’m pleased you thought so Beth. It’s a terribly sad time here. No poppy spectacle obviously, but a ceremony at all the thousands and thousands of war memorials all over the country. The weather is usually appropriately sad too xx
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