Cantwareburh
Rome took too long
and has been buried
by Kentish Royality,
so you have to go
home now
the garden is closed.
Augustine House on bread water,
live off brown paste
there is no Christmas
no house
to scratch a penny against
city wall
for double-entry
where feet discern
through shaded bales
and wilting stiles this endless
Toryland is punt boat clad
old oak quad sculls
and boarding boys
near piss stones
eyes in bunting regalia
no more speed left over
Pope Gregory
sent Augustine
to convert for Christianity,
here is the place
for Archbishop of Canterbury
and some Danish raids
motte-and-bailey pilgrims
chase down the street
scum relics
on cobbled streets
The Red Dean Archbishop
calls for Uncle Josef
on 17th Century Bay Windows,
where the brickearth mounds
over chalk breaks like Dover Straits
& listen to
quarter peal
of Stedman Caters
ring as though sounding
the tocsin
of blood ascension
under the largest surviving gate
in England, the divine right
to anchorite
and the individual
made caterfoil
under the alder tree
is my heart trying to die
on Ramsgate Road,
no but I survived
and starved red
tertiary sand over
London clay my hand
in the rose-garden.
