Short-dayed December.

Air prismatic, intense with ice and sideways sun.

 

Cathedral -

Gold-honey-fudge confection

Bisecting astounding blue.

 

Near St. Peter's,

Enough trees thrifty of leaf

To run the gamut of orange

And still smell of autumn.

 

Wire abacus strung with starlings -

For a good moment, no traffic,

Only their chatty parliament,

Subtracted as the town roars back.

 

By the Ram, youths tangle;

In the Market Place, old boys sit publicly alone

Between the war memorial and the empty fountain.

 

Perched on Saddlergate's cold stones,

Red-jumpered tinwhistle busker, makeshift robin.

 

 

© Emmaline O'Dowd 2007 reproduced with permission of the author