-
Get Published on Female First
The gentle phase of autumn is over
Now its clarion call is 'winter comes',
And I am hunched against a wind that is rushing me,
Pushing me to do what what must be done.
Its icy chill has scoured the streets clean of human form,
Blowing them back home like scraps of paper
Snatched from numb fingers. And yet.....
A memory lingers of softer days wandering
These streets of ancient grandeur, solid and staid.
A gentle meander through alleys and byways,
Aimless rambles through the fourteenth century
'Shambles' where butchers plied their trade and
Its people created history.
Roman and Viking made their mark here
And it was, once, the seat of kings and the heart of England.
What change time brings. But she is clothed in Time
And cares not for the ticking of the clock.
She is sublime and reigns, as ever, uncaring
Yet still sharing her dignity.
The memory freezes in the bone-biting chill
As icy fingers prod and poke me past the Minster.
Its shadow looms, a Gothic presence, sinister and dour.
The memory sours and, at last, I give in.
I will return in Spring when this stately spinster
Is clothed in sunlight and I can, once again,
Breathe her in.