Walk from North Bransholme to the Minster

And so we meet by the monks of Meaux
The three wise men and me, all of us from afar:
New Zealand, Kurdistan, Harpenden and Essex,
Adopted now by this fine city.
A healer, an artist, an agitator, an adventurer.

Setting off at a fair old pace that remains

As we navigate streets, alleyways,
Bicycle lanes, bridges, estates.

Past council cladded bungalows  
Wrapped warm for the winter
Unlike the homes that are owned
Right next to them
Standing clad-less in their pebbledashery.

Flags on lamp-posts punctuate the way for a while
And on a phone I’m shown the Kurdish flag
With its Christmas colours of red, white and green
And its glorious sun, beaming.

Above us a robin bounces between branches
And calls for our attention
Leading to talk of Robin Hood’s Bay
And trips to Whitby
And films about Robin Hood.

A good man, we agree,
A brave man, we agree,
We need more Robin Hoods!
We loudly agree
To stop all the scapegoating
And taking from the poor.

And then we fall silent, step back,
Stride on in our different worlds.
And I’m wondering how to be more Robin Hoody
Whilst whooping at the beauty
Of the rich brown mud and the ducks by the river.

And soon we’re feeling the cobbles of the Old Town
With the Minster peeping above the pubs
And we’re nearly there, already!
The three wise men and me,
Ready for a sit down and a cup of tea.

Fiona P