How I escaped the madness of the US election
For poet and artist Frieda Hughes, autumn is medicinal – especially Bonfire Night, when she is almost able to forget those celebrating the second coming of Trump (and Nigel Farage)
BONFIRE NIGHT
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.