St Paul’s Church, Covent Garden

Cold fingers,
       the volunteer gardeners rake leaves
       from the flowerbeds 
       that circle tree-trunks.
       A last green and white hydrangea
       stares its bath-cap head at me.
       Cars hoot near Bedford St.
       There’s a helicopter overhead.
       Leaves and Tesco receipts 
       blow across the square paving-stones.
       It’s 1 minute to 10.
	  A cold breeze catches
	  the morning.

—
Covent Garden is my destination on many mornings when I disembark from the tube. If I have a few moments I sit in the garden of the Actors’ Church, St Pauls of Covent Garden. This poem was drafted on a cold November morning as an exercise in specificity; a careful attempt at noting sound, touch and sight sensations.
—
@BeadedQuill
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Books:
A volume of twenty-five poems about work, love and life for the Modern Boy and another of twenty poems about the ‘stretched decade’ of 18 to 30. 

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