Middle Street’s grey-blue townhouses
lean over its narrow lane
bright wooden doors with Christmas wreaths
half-shuttered windows leak orange flames
a basement glimpse of tables laid
ready for tomorrow’s feast
tree-lights flicker over golden baubles
log fires warm ladies holding champagne
while gentlemen with whisky smiles
share amusing stories and escapades.
I stop to stare, hands thrust deep in pockets
shivering in the dim lamplight
my coat clasped tight across my neck
steam clouds billowing from damp-breath.
Wishing I could stretch out upon that carpet
gin in hand, back against that easy chair
while gathered around me are gentlefolk
enraptured by my wicked tales
laughing at my outrageous jokes
gazing adoringly at my hair.