You (down from a
sphinx-less chasm crossing
to a tide-less hub afloat (a
forged new cut bears the
vagaries of highs and lows
and ebbs and flows) that
meets a Gothic – spired;
spire-less – and most fair
chiseled-chapel singing
memories of loaded ships
(a-sailed to catch the assail
of the wind) for voyage,
trade, and [Out, damned spot!]
for chains for rum and sugar)

are (old waterway that runs
away about the heart and centre,
under bus and boot and bike and
paw and car and cardboard
(coddled by a sleeping bag), beneath
the painted walls and the dancing
halls and the quarried stone – brought
over from the Roman spa town –
that lines the lead-up to the meeting
of a four-street welcome at an
arched entry on the Avon by the
ruins [Republic!] of a castle [Crown!]
before a broad and bustling shop-
ing quarter) my favourite

(out into the sprawl are all
(and any), few and many, who
mix and maintain (blended and
discreet) lives that’re lived in
lots of ways: the flaws, follies,
phonetics, food, mannerisms,
music – a multitude converging
on the waterfront, walking on the water,
changing while it’s changing in
response) place (and the glaciated
gateway scar turns a fort in-
to a port into a city,
floating on the sunlight in the river).


Image credit – EVENTA

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