St Peter's Square
All of Ruthin's roads lead here
to the square at the top of the hill,
surrounded on all four sides by ancient buildings
and their many eyes,
that have witnessed centuries.
A little girl was once observed, sitting on the bench
outside the Midland bank, eating green grapes
out of a paper bag, swinging her feet
beneath the hem of her new, flowery sun- dress
bought from Ethel Austin on the corner of Well Street.
She's guarding the shopping,
a loaf of bread and eggs from the Milk Bar,
watching the world go by while she waits for her mother.
She studies the rectangle of silky blue sky,
castellated by the roof tops and chimney pots,
and feels as if she could fall in.
A decade later, the girl stands beneath the Peers memorial,
its clock tracking time at the heart of the town,
the horse trough and drinking fountain long dried up,
as if no one ever gets thirsty any more.
Above, the same courtyard of sky is midnight black
and the stars flicker in the crisp Welsh air.
Tonight she's not alone.
Her companion, a boy, takes her hand, pulls her close.
She looks up into the green reservoirs of his eyes
and feels as if she could fall in
as she waits for him to kiss her.
Some years later, on a bright Saturday in June,
a pied draught horse pulls a cart, trimmed with flowers
and trailing ribbons, it clip- clops up Market Street
and turns once about the roundabout,
passing the banks, the clock on the square
and the Castle Hotel. People stop to wave and cheer
at the girl in the cart, radiant in her bridal ivory and gold.
She looks out at the sunlit streets and familiar faces
and feels her heart swell with love for home.
Tenderly, she is delivered to the great arched doorway
of the town hall. Inside, her boy waits for her.
Leaf Pettit