Classy like frayed trainers
in unrelenting January drizzle,
All Saints Square is slick;
dead leaves lie limp in corners.

Conifers drape the waterfall
amid stone shelves and naked acers,
the curve of alms-houses stately
through the lattice of branches.

The sky is a drab veil
behind the listless winter market.
Stall-holders huddle mugs
over cabbages and bric-a-brac.

A bent man in a wool coat
waits at the bus stop for Spring,
and old oaks in the cemetery
are preparing to unfurl.


Christine Rigden