ii
I’m not down some
grey-muzzled road
off the old Kite
nor chalked up
with REFRESHMENTS
and ICES beneath
a pyramid
of canned peas
there since rationing
nor standing any week-day
dusk by a temporary
bus stop on Pound Hill
nor head-down
over the drop handlebars
of some five-gear
Gentleman’s Racer
sporting tweeds
and cycle-clips
nor behind a crack-pot
hollyhock by spiked black
railings past the U.L.
but simply blistering off
in globules
that have collected
according to the laws
of surface tension
on the bonnet
of a permit-holder’s Polo
under paving-stone-
cracking sycamores
down Grange Road
contemplating that turn
up to the Maltings
iii