Wednesday 6 July 2022

Cantwareburh (draft/unfinished)


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.