Thinking about the murder of Julius

As his name-month swelters

And the Unitarian Doric of New Road

Houses a new busker

 

The formal portico is like a promise

Of something even better

Rational organisation of things

Simplicity of a sun-shaped god

 

The flute-player misses a note

Sparrows chip the paving

– No blood on these stones –

The next high improvisation he attempts

 

Disappears into the blue and out of history.

Columns indent like inert components

Of some unwieldy gear

Which has run down now and lies

 

Disassembled in the workshop –

Cog-wheels and grease, the smell of solder.