today is not a sullen day.
because today the rain has soaked me so
i fear that from my toenails fins may grow:
it came and cleansed the dusty crevices
between my thoughts, each drop
(and there were many many million)
sought out a crusty brain cell's parched abode
and grew, without asking permission,
there an oasis where green palm trees lent their shade
and orange flowers sprang up with a little pop
such was their urge to pattern my imagination.
i walked through camden town and fell in love again.
with london and its people. and i remembered why
so many leave their kinder climes and visit here
or if they're mad enough they come to stay:
because on such a day magnificent and wet
when water drips relentlessly from plastic covers over stalls
and drenches those who in the throng stand underneath the brim perplexed;
when water soaks each piece of clothing to the body it contains
and deeper still; when water runs down everybody's face
(excepting those who wear a hat: their hats though are most moist)
when those who hatless but with hair enough to show
acquire looks of swimmers surfacing out of the pool –
their cheeks and noses seem like grapes and peaches in those photographs
you see in adverts for refreshing drinks
with dew pearls sprinkled on the rosy flesh –
when shirts and trousers cling to chests and legs
and in the overcrowded street an ever-changing sheet
of clumsy brollies makes its funny shapes;
when in among the musty smells of garments going damp
you feel attracted to a sausage stand where onions
and thick slabs of burger meat await their frying fate;
when every voice you hear hails from a different land
(safe those from italy who are most likely all italians and number most)
when cars go slowly, giving now and then a futile honk
not realising that by magic all their windscreen wipers swipe in synch
as if to underscore the rhythm of the human throb
which spills from pavements, market lots and street cafés
into the middle of the road, and there it sometimes stays;
then
in the middle of that road
on such a beautiful befuddled day
you can behold
a young and handsome man
in purple shorts
wearing a most becoming smile
stride happily towards the tube
as if it were july.
because today the rain has soaked me so
i fear that from my toenails fins may grow:
it came and cleansed the dusty crevices
between my thoughts, each drop
(and there were many many million)
sought out a crusty brain cell's parched abode
and grew, without asking permission,
there an oasis where green palm trees lent their shade
and orange flowers sprang up with a little pop
such was their urge to pattern my imagination.
i walked through camden town and fell in love again.
with london and its people. and i remembered why
so many leave their kinder climes and visit here
or if they're mad enough they come to stay:
because on such a day magnificent and wet
when water drips relentlessly from plastic covers over stalls
and drenches those who in the throng stand underneath the brim perplexed;
when water soaks each piece of clothing to the body it contains
and deeper still; when water runs down everybody's face
(excepting those who wear a hat: their hats though are most moist)
when those who hatless but with hair enough to show
acquire looks of swimmers surfacing out of the pool –
their cheeks and noses seem like grapes and peaches in those photographs
you see in adverts for refreshing drinks
with dew pearls sprinkled on the rosy flesh –
when shirts and trousers cling to chests and legs
and in the overcrowded street an ever-changing sheet
of clumsy brollies makes its funny shapes;
when in among the musty smells of garments going damp
you feel attracted to a sausage stand where onions
and thick slabs of burger meat await their frying fate;
when every voice you hear hails from a different land
(safe those from italy who are most likely all italians and number most)
when cars go slowly, giving now and then a futile honk
not realising that by magic all their windscreen wipers swipe in synch
as if to underscore the rhythm of the human throb
which spills from pavements, market lots and street cafés
into the middle of the road, and there it sometimes stays;
then
in the middle of that road
on such a beautiful befuddled day
you can behold
a young and handsome man
in purple shorts
wearing a most becoming smile
stride happily towards the tube
as if it were july.
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