Bath Street
for the Living Voices project

Walking west twelve blocks (I’d counted)
I crossed the bridge
to Mitchell Library.

Horizontals stepped my eyes up
to Minerva’s right-hand book,
green-printed, weighty as sterling.

Inside, she sang stories
sounding of ash trees
tuned by ear or key.

Letters flew to poetry
pink wool-coated
like midwinter spring.

Walking east, returning
I recognised the street―
twelve blocks, I knew (I’d counted)
but it felt like eight to new-named feet.

Martha Pollard