When I was travelling through Pontefract on the bus yesterday, I started to think about the history of the town. Over the centuries, and presently still under certain circumstances, what we now know as Pontefract (a name of Latin origin, although the Romans never had a settlement there) has also been called Pomfret (Norman French derivation), Kirkby (a Viking name) and Tanshelf (directly from Old English).

Strangely, the name 'Pontefract' means 'broken bridge' but there isn't a bridge there. It's all rather puzzling.

PETER'S PENCE

The Church of England
Is fortunate in not having
To take financial matters
Into consideration.

The price of cathedral
Guide books is always
Rounded up
To the nearest pound.

Ninety nine pence
Is anathema.

I got caught out in the rain yesterday (unlike cricketers) and now seem to be coughing and sniffling, so I fear I might be coming down with something again.

The weather has now become very autumnal and typically English; dark and miserable for the most part, and hour after hour of drizzle.

Personally, I'd much prefer a brief heavy dowmpour followed by a bit of brightness.

DECEMBER POEM

Saturday night:
Nearly Christmas...
Three men stagger.

An electric sky
Stutters over the words
Of a hundred advertisers.

A puddle
Punctured by a tyre
Deflates onto boots
As a shadow
In a shop doorway,
Smelling of low spirits,
Sings the praises
Of religious abstinence
And coitus interruptus:
God forbid