A Cold Spell

Although spiders’ webs froze on trees
and overflows’ constant drip became shafts of icicles
Lidia still bedded down in Kentish Town
on cardboard under polystyrene

Born in Bolivia her face lit up
when someone spoke to her in Spanish
Her heart gave out on Tuesday
On the railings a bouquet of red tulips

For Lidia we gathered. We walked behind the hearse
while a lament was sung
and pipers played the music of mourning
On her coffin were white roses.

By Joy Johnson, Unite political department