July

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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

–┬áNo 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.

 

 

Pebble

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Sitting inside
one of the

graffitied wooden
shelters on

Hove seafront
beside the

peeling green
and brown

paint with
the empty

lager can set
against the

precise horizon
of the railings,

approaching rain
visible as

a greyish membrane
connecting clouds

to the sea.
An unanticipated

sense of
love animates

my perception
of the frothy sound

of toing and
froing waves and

the smell of
stale human piss

that pervades
the shelter.

I notice
a seagull

as it
flutters upwards

carrying a pebble
in its bill

and lets the stone
drop back

down onto
the beach.

It has
some reason

for doing this
as it repeats

the action.