No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No traveling at all--no locomotion--
No inkling of the way--no notion--
"No go" by land or ocean--
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--
November! - - Thomas Hood
- - here it is already – I am never quite sure where the year goes to and again it seems to have disappeared before I had time to capture it. I found this poem surfacing in my head again as I often do when November comes around - - I love its evocative description - - I remember many foggy November days that this captures so perfectly - - I grew up in an area surrounded by cotton & woollen mills – huge chimneys belching black smoke into the atmosphere, turning the sky a dirty grey, lit by the lurid yellow street lamps as darkness fell, hoarding the smoke before returning to earth the gift - - Fog - - creeping in – silent and insidious, dampening the pavements, slithering down from the yellowy skies throughout the day, so that by the end of school, as the day began to draw in, and darkness began to fall the buses were no longer running, and mummy’s were standing by the gates with scarves to muffle up to try to keep that dirty yellow mist out of their children’s lungs. We little ones who lived further away were bundled up in our coats by the teachers, hatted and gloved, scarves round our mouths, marshalled together and “crocced” up the hill by Mrs Taylor - to be met by assorted mummy's waiting at the end of side roads to collect their own little ones, so that by the time we reached Springfield Lane there were just 2 of clinging tight to Mrs Taylor's hands. We would be handed over to either my mummy or Kenneth's mummy to be taken home to our respective homes (we lived next door to each other), there to be fussed over and fed on an old fashioned high tea - perhaps of hash, boiled eggs and buttery 'soldiers'.
Its not foggy here today - - its raining very hard and very steadily - - but visibility isn't good - which is why I think the poem came into my head!
Thanks for stopping by
Gura mie ayd. J x
