Old Anglia

Trouble me not, Pip: finding my body
on the platform at Bank, erect at Suez.
None has declined more since ’57. But the
spasm that runs every night over Fleet.
Play this song-the sound of poor herdsmen
that come now: enjoying their ports in Greens.
Strike a note for the old man whose hat
is paper. Read by some. In finance.
It was May; the sky was early technicolour.
I was removed by something greased, a civil
servant-learning Pythagoras after Eden.

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