Rain-spit / rain-drip /what-you-will,
too light to call a drizzle fell
all afternoon, as out we walked
through these drift-dreaming streets,
whose Tudor chimneys stand high guardsmen,
gargoyles, as in astral vomit lean 'far-out' over,
and phallic spikes in ocher stone-bulges,
set in their stylized aspirations,
as pointedly ignore the colored crowd below
as they are shunned by the pavement domain,
who stroll their weave through window-land -
so few sky eyes to look up, wow, and click.All the way out down Trumpington Road
to the Panton Arms for a pint with Vicky,
outside under glass, at the courtyard back,
and thence to the Fitzwilliam for a mooch
and a lollygag at swords, muskets, coins,
ending with a focus on their few Canalettos.On the way back, to Sis' house, myth-talking,
heroes with downsides: 'Daedalus,
dropped his nephew out a window - asshole,'
says Urshie.
'Mm. But people always cluster stories
to balance things up. Jason was doing so well,
but what then, Medea?'
'Perseus was a decent
bloke,' she ventures.
'He is a star (well a bunch of stars)',
like Earandil, in Tolkien, sailing his blessed boat,
Iggle-Piggle-like to the Night Garden,' I say.
That raises a laugh or too.Past cake shops and cafes, the wet air
smoked like a joss-stick:
cannabis traces (no cheap skunk)
perfumes of passersby, drafts of shop doorways
glowed in my mind's delight, as if
some seventies charlatan guru was due
to sweep through, garlanded in paper flowersor hieratic rood-screen heavy censers,
drifted from oak of a high-church college-chapel
mixed dilute with mundane and demotic
patchouli oil and coffee grounds.