THE GIFT

In Leeds Market hall
(a Baroque extravagance
by the way,
in wrought iron and stone,
its roof a wild display
of domes, cupolas, towers,
and spikes that would tear
a low-passing cloud to shreds)
used to be a familiar figure
in long brown coat and with
long straggly hair
falling around
a long gaunt face,
grey as smoke,
thin as water,
and boney reefs
beneath the skin.
She muttered
to herself all day,
and sometimes shouted
imprecations at
puzzled passers-by.
A week before Christmas,
the market filled by a
a human soup
moving in main-stream
currents from Here to
There, or swirling around
in eddies,
she lurked on the edge,
hunted by
her demons and
glowering with
deep-seated suspicion
at the Christmas decorations.
Without any warning,
a woman stopped
when she reached her
and gave her a small
box of chocolates
and wished her a
"Happy Christmas".
It was such an astounding
thing that the demons,
so recently circling
with threats and menaces
saw it and were dissolved,
leaving her dumbfounded.
She gazed at her present,
and noting one small
imperfection, with
meticulous care,
so as to leave no trace of it,
she removed the price
on its sticky label.