Friday, 30 December 2016
Poem 2016 / 108
He cuts a dapper figure
against the frost-pocked pavement
amidst the gay detritus
of post-Christmas dustbin collection
(We're allowed to leave an extra bag
of 'festive waste' next to the bin.)
Two dogs on leads, an old corgi
moving slow as a Brussels sprout on a child's fork
and a feisty Parson's terrier, full of the joy
of Christmas morning,
even though it's Wednesday already
and time for the end-of-year best-ofs on the telly.
His polished brogues cut a swathe
through newly minted ice crystals,
his stick a polished meter of time-hewn yew.
A fifties Mackintosh over a tweed three-piece
collar and tie, naturally,
though as a nod to the new century
he walks without a hat,
the polished gleam of his pate
blinding in the early sun.
He greets the old lady at sixty-eight,
nods to the goddess from seventy,
who looks younger now than she did twelve years ago,
moves with the opposite of haste
a widdershins circumambulation
of a litter-strewn the street.