Perverse Headingley traffic scours
one finite day’s delicate pass
at frost-sharpened nerve ends
electric in end-of-day Yorkshire.
Midwinter shines from English brick,
these look-alike likeminded houses.
Returned from an office I hunch
at the attic bedsitter’s window,
take a ginger biscuit, a glass of cider.
The floor of this topmost room quivers
with beating of homesick traffic.
Midwinter strokes at the faded Greek,
a Christian Science, façade.
Chimney shadows set angles to roofs
over the Terrace as, feigning it goes
bound for Otley or Ilkley,
the Beast blares through Woodhouse Lane.
On an instant I’m seized by grief,
grief for some least of things –
dainty Friday, black and white mother cat,
4. 2. 69
a lightweight cat of three kittens,
neurotic, but very feminine.
She ran, playing, in front of a car.
Words do not work, will not speak.