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.
Tony Quarrington 