March

North wind beats the edges off
The summer, kicks the heads
Off daffodils on
Wordsworth Avenue,
Pebbledash houses fight it
Out with their blunt glint and
Eyeless windows tensed
Against the cold;
Smug at recalcitrant sun
Teased out of cloud.
That tattered St George's cross
That flaps and flags up the
Truck stop, shown up by
Aged miners' homes
Neat gardens with handrails
On all the doors.
I feel sick with shame
Always coming back here
In one piece.