Lyres, harps, and choral voices usher the Stour
on its willowy way, past the whispering backs of houses,
their secret gardens.
There are minstrels too, and dancing girls
like a rush of bluebells.

Where once carts rumbled over cobble stones,
bicycle wheels turn, and cars roll;
children gather at the bus station
while the city sings in stone and glass,
in cafes and theatres, on grass;
sings with the guy on his guitar, dog by his side, hat at his feet
the child skipping, the baby giggling – her small fist
teaching upwards to grasp this precious air,
this moment in time, Canterbury.

This poem is on display at the Westgate Gardens Underpass in Canterbury