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.
