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