Calling at Hastings, Oxford ...

Calling at Hastings, Oxford...

Going places, that's what lovers do,
Tourists and the successful too.

Deus omnibus, God goes with us,
Well, S/He used to follow Caz around.
That's my girlfriend, with the sunglasses,
The babe, over there, where King Harold
Might very well have copped his eyeful.

We've also starred at Stratford-Culture_Land.
Where, posing as a golden couple;
We visited a house with a small bed,
That Shakespeare committed historical
Acts in, or in a bed quite like it.

Now at Oxford, the talk's of Paradise
Lost, with croquet on the lawns, Schubert
In the quad, and gap-toothed, grobbly grotesques
On every flying mantelpiece. Moments
Suspended in eternity, as the
Autumn sun heated up my thermal vest
And organ music weeped through the walls.

Caz is edgy, it's partly the place, but
More - 'It's the memories -
I don't want them, not when we split
And go abroad alone.' While I,
The literary love-brain, suck dry the cock
Of history. In this city of cyclists,
Spires, gargoyles, Boyle, Hooke and Maxwell (crook).

All that effort for an internal rhyme;
It's a fair cop Caz - I'll do the time.

Date mostly written: 1988