THE mist has lifted like a ghost
From Alexandra Park
A squirrel scurries up a tree
With golden leaves waving on branches
And flickering like snow to the verdant grass
Where stars of morning dew have melted
Now the silver Channel comes into view
For the grey sky has transmuted to blue.
But at this time of year I reflect
On the sacrifices made by young soldiers
So stand and stare at the Memorial Tower.
An old man with poppy sits on a bench
Perhaps recalling fallen comrades.
I return an hour later but he has gone
Like the mist on this bright November day
Before the autumnal storms come our way.
Guy Fletcher
Pantmawr
Cardiff
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