The abiding Jan Hus

with all those Hussites burnt at the stake,

for believing, 

differently.

 

Fireworks, like blood red poppies,

explode like a nebula of stars;

a tang of smoke clings to our clothes

as the veneer of history swirls into 

mists ….. hordes of Turks, Mongols

Russians and now these bloody Prussians.

 

Braziers, chestnuts, mufflers, gloved velvet revolutions

beget a tug of war ‘twixt a veiled now and a hidden then

as we head into the ice-wind off the frozen Danube.

 

Icicle sparks spread through the very air,

flare into lighted cigarettes, candles mingle with the whiff of beer,

mulled wine: people alive through this very last November,

silent going away parties fill the corners of so many empty rooms.