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Crunching over the frozen grass, we arrive a few minutes early. There’s a small knot of people under the clock on the cathedral’s north wall. On top of a litter bin a single leather glove glistens with frost. The cold is intense. Bright moonlight, the stars hard and clear.

Two minutes to go.  A premature firework pops in the distance, then another close by. People are arriving in groups and couples, heard before seen, hugging one another for warmth, talking animatedly, some in party hats.

One minute to go. Conversations cease as we stare up at the mailed figures on either side of the clock face. At last they raise their battleaxes to strike, and we embrace and cheer and greet friends and strangers with the same words. A raucous din erupts from the direction of the market place. Fireworks crackle and screech. My tall companion, muffled in facial hair and thick felt coat and hat, unsheathes the sparklers and I light the first one with difficulty. We light the others from it, give them away at random and turn towards home, grinning madly and twirling our sparklers. On Cathedral Green, two youths cross our path and one of them utters what may be, but probably is not, the first obscenity of 2002.

We enter the market place, where the young are celebrating in cheerful uproar. A tinselled figure separates itself from the crowd.

alone outside the bank
she communes
with her mobile phone

The first bus of the year moves down the High Street. A police car cruises quietly after it. A charity shop has ‘SALE’ notices in the window. Gusts of laughter blow out of a pub doorway; nightlife seethes behind its bright windows. We step over spilt chips frozen to the pavement. Our street is quiet, bleached by moonlight.

another year
the same sound
of the key in the lock

Wells 1.1.2002