The pavements are sodden,
and it stopped raining half an hour ago.
Lightning is exploding above
and not a whisper of thunder.
A celestial thread might have been lowered,
five hundred feet above Bloomsbury
a pair of opposing gods are fighting,
with hands and teeth
the flesh of immortal bodies
and in the moment of exposure,
energy is lightening the sky,
and the sodden pavements
and the bricks and windowsills and the tops of heads
are drenched anew
And my head should be pounding.
But it isn’t.