How I escaped the madness of the US election

Beech trees crisp and colour their ochres and reds.

The stillness of autumn has left them well-dressed

In the unusual quiet that tamps the days into submission

And gutters the birdsong.

Gone is a season that never fulfilled its potential.

We waded the summer countryside, globally warmed

To the cockles of our mud pies in the shelter of our umbrellas,

And celebrated when the cloud cover did not bring rain

On Bonfire Night. The children on their father's shoulders,

The young, the middle-aged and the crumbling,

Gathered at the flaming edge of the fire-stack

To witness airborne explosions that glittered with the idea

There is something beyond ourselves, and magic exists,

Even if it is only man-made and momentary.

It is in the darkness that follows, having been dazzled,

That I find myself surrounded by the black holes of winter

Into which I might fall. I have life-rafts

When the day is bleakest: a hot bath and hair wash,

A poached egg on buttered toast with a mug of tea,

A wood burner and warm dogs, and the advent of spring.