St Brieuc sunset

Time was I'd leave you feeling somewhat frayed,
unequal to the task of you, but now
I step out from your door, almost sure
of the streets and alleyways, the little veins
stitched with stone, late windowsill geraniums,
wrought iron gates that curtain courtyards
of winter-facing fig-trees and mimosa, 
tall windows piercing through the foreign dark
of houses onto walled gardens, valleys, slopes,
and hope that friendship might grow bright as well as fade.

Now at the church whose rank decay, 
lifeless liturgies and cracked glazed Lazarus, 
once told of horror more than resurrection,
(It is well known, none can be held responsible for her despair...)
the lycée students sit ranged on the stone steps 
like flowering auriculars, wrapped round 
with coats and scarves and one another,
looking down towards the evening town 
washed kindly rose and gold, and holding out
against the winter and the shortening day.