Sitting on the roof on a muggy evening.
Clerkenwell before him.
Bloomsbury distantly implied
by the uppermost leaves of that London plane tree,
imperfectly concealed by that arse-hole
of a seventies office block
in the middle distance.
It’s gently photosynthesising on Gray’s Inn Road.
Making the most of the day’s final photons.
Leaves struck gold
from a sun that’s reddish,
and smeared all over the horizon,
igniting the pollutants in the air
made suddenly beautiful.
he feels the relief