Tony Quarrington

A biting breeze and thin drizzle

Denote December’s inevitable

If uninvited return;

Twilight descends

In the ancient churchyard.

Never has the phrase

“Quiet as the grave”

Seemed more apt.

As I pause to tie my bootlaces

By the Town Cross, venue for

Mayor making for centuries,

My body shudders as

A young woman brushes past,

The hem of her blue dress

Grazing the grass border

And her white headpiece

Fluttering in the wind.

She carries provisions –

Bread, leeks and a

Small flagon of beer –

For the poor of the parish

In a round wicker basket,

Forswearing another

Potentially lucrative tryst

With a Northumbrian nobleman,

Orchestrated by a despairing father.

Her head bowed, she whispers

“Good evening, sir, God be with you”.

Before I can frame

An intelligible response,

She disappears behind the west window. 

Composing myself as best I can,

I shamble past unremembered tombs,

Narrowly avoiding a collision

With a rat scuttling across my path

To the comparative sanctuary

Of the lopsided lychgate

Leading into Church Street.