Lichfield On A Monday Poem by John Rickell

The old streets confirm its age, a thousand years or so,
mixed in wild abandon, plaster walls and white wash
sagging to the street, narrow windows low arched doors
once home for weavers, cobblers, blacksmiths, candle makers
to those in smart tall houses built of brick, not wattle,
snobbish Georgian noses in the air, ‘kerchiefs at their wrist
lean back in haughty stance above the street, balustraded roof,
hand-rails painted white, sash and steps, lanterns black and glazed
brass plates beside the bell-pull each side of the blue front door.


We strolled the Monday streets noon-time in the sun
down a step, and mind the door, into an arthritic Tudor cafe,
beams complaining of tiles long since replacing golden thatch,
light meal and gentle conversation above terracotta tiles;
then to the lake, greedy ducks, children and their bread crumbs,
passed cafes, shops and restaurants cheek by yowl and busy.
Looking at the Cathedral, stained in soot from miners passed.


Inside the air clean, marble statues smooth and bright
flagged nave its chairs in silent witness, looking east,
a stillness in the air compressed beneath the vaulted roof
pressing down our souls to impress, somewhere, here is God.
A bible locked in a climate all its own and dimly lit;
see the print and ancient paper; read it if you can.
Another stroll along familiar streets clicking shutters
the sun shining no sign of rain no clouds to spoil,
home again our several ways,
a worth-while day, a day well spent.